Author Archives: rich

One Drop of Blood

When Conrad was about two, like a lot of kids, he always added voiceover as he was playing with his action figures. Unlike most kids, he would separate the story into chapters. I don’t know if he ever got beyond chapter one, but there was always a chapter one—and it was usually the same. In his most dramatic voice, he would say, “Chapter One: The Case of Batman Dies!” After that, the story would vary. One story line went as follows:

Chapter One: The Case of Batman Dies!

He had one drop of blood!

Then he fell, and the blood went back into his body.

Oh, the drama!

Disappointed

Conrad was having an exceptionally good basketball game and was nailing every shot. Literally every shot. I didn’t know the man sitting next to me, and he didn’t know I was Conrad’s dad. He noticed Conrad and muttered to himself, “Wow, that kid has a good arm.” By the end of the game, Conrad had made every shot except one free-throw.

At the end of the game, Conrad walked up to me and was excited to point out that he had made every shot. I congratulated him, but I did point out that he missed a free throw. (I always tell him that you don’t miss free throws or lay-ups.) The man sitting next to me, now realizing that I was Conrad’s dad, looked at me with wide eyes that seemed to say, “Wow, you are harsh.”

Merit Badge

The scouts are working on their architecture merit badge, and they asked me to give a presentation about Oma and Opa’s house. I think the presentation went well, but all of the ceremony before the presentation took me by surprise. I was never a scout, so I didn’t know any of the pledges or gang signs. I gave a peace sign for the first one, hang-loose for the second, and the heavy-metal horns for the third.

Drinking and Driving

I normally don’t drink soda. I just never really liked it. I also don’t drink alcohol.

Years ago, we were driving home after a family trip to the coast, and I suddenly felt really, really tired. In a rare move, I stopped at a tiny convenience store, in a tiny town, and bought a Coke. (I now realize that I should have just let Claire drive.) Apparently, the kids realized something unusual was happening because I heard Harper whisper to the others, “Papa’s drinking alcohol.”

Only Tile

We have a number of old Communist Russian Propaganda posters hanging in our house. People often see them and think they reflect our political views, but I just like the illustration style.

We had some tile work done by a father-and-son team from Russia. The father got really excited when he saw the posters and asked if he could take a photo. Russia and Trump were in the news a lot, so I asked what he thought about everything that was happening. He answered, “Clinton, Trump…to me, it makes no difference…I only do tile.”

 

The Opposite

We were playing a game of “Would You Rather,” and Weston came up with a real dilemma:

Would you rather be able to understand every language and not be able to speak them—or the opposite?

I think I would rather speak other languages and not know what I’m saying, but that’s me.

Happy Birthday

Weston: “What can I get you for your birthday?”

Claire: “Win the first game of the tournament, and that will be my present.”

Weston: “OK, and I’ll lose the second so you don’t have to stay for another game.”

(They won all three anyway.)

Thank you!

Conrad had a basketball game yesterday. They won by 28 points. Conrad played point and did well. He scored 20 points and got about a bazillion assists. Part-way through the game, someone in the stands yelled, “Good job, Conrad!” Conrad looked back and said, “Thank you!”

Such a polite young man.

We don’t know

I don’t remember the question, but Conrad answered, “Uh UH uh.”

Rich: “Use words. How did ‘uh uh uh’ become ‘I don’t know’?”

Conrad: “Uh UH uh.”

Where are your pants?

Weston wears shorts all year, and has never experienced weather cold enough to merit pants in his mind. This was painful to watch on our recent trip to London. Some days were much too cold for shorts — at least for any of the other 8.5 million people in London — but Weston didn’t care.

We walked by a stand that sold FC Barcelona hats. I told Weston I would buy him a hat if he agreed to wear pants the next day. We then went into our regular back-and-forth about why, at times, he should wear pants. The man selling us the hat had a bemused look on his face, and I realized that “pants” in England means “underwear.” I was trying to bribe my son to wear underwear, which is only slightly less bizarre than trying to bribe him to wear “trousers.”