Big Daddy Paul

Meeting Malcolm for the first time was one of the best moments of my life, ranking right up there with getting the game winning hit in the 1982 Little League championship and the first time I ever tried Queso Fundido. The kid was a spitting image of me, and I cried knowing that he was going to be every bit of the hunk that I am today. (I also cried at all the horrible names that Amy called me in front of the nursing staff, but I try not to focus on the negative aspects of Malcolm’s arrival.) Throughout his childhood, both Amy and I have marveled at the little ways Malcolm reminds us of ourselves.

At Malcolm’s tee ball game the other day, I realized that there is a downside to having your kid share your traits. Malcolm was consistently the last kid out of the dugout, unable (every inning apparently) to keep track of his hat and mitt. As his coaches yelled out wondering where he was, I felt responsible. I have the organizational skills of chicken running around without its head, and evidently Malcolm thinks this is a perfectly acceptable way to approach life. Getting us both out of the house at the same time closely resembles the chaos of a meth lab being raided by federal agents. Sometimes I wish the apple fell farther from the tree.

Sadly, this is the same outfit I wore to my prom.

I have also noticed that Malcolm shares my disdain for the fashion rules of polite society. He seems to select his outfits to ensure that every color in the rainbow is represented. Lately he has even compounded his fashion faux pas by attempting to wear as many clothes as possible each day. Today, he came out of his room  with four different sets of pajamas on. I was the same way growing up, looking like I got dressed each day by randomly selecting clothes after a bomb blew up at the clown college.

One of the more interesting ways that Malcolm is showing off my traits is the comments he makes while watching baseball games. I have high expectations for my Giants, and am quick to announce my displeasure whenever they do not meet my lofty standards. Malcolm has picked up on this, and if you watch games with him, you can routinely hear him make comments like, “What are you thinking?” or “Dude, you are killing me!” I have even gone so far as to try and teach him the razz, “Grab some pine, meat!!!” (for when an opposing player strikes out) and am eagerly waiting when he can actually use it properly. Most of the time, he butchers it, saying,”Grab some meat, piney,” or other close derivation.

My heart melts a little bit when I see my good looking little boy, sitting on our messy couch with four pairs of pajamas on, yelling at the baseball players on the TV. Yes, a melting heart, kind of like the cheese on a perfectly executed Queso Fundido.

I have been to a grand total of two of Malcolm’s tee ball games, which, in my mind, makes me an expert. Unlike some of the parents out there who sit and talk to each other or get caught up on Facebook via their cell phone, I have marked my time on the sidelines fastidiously studying the kids and wondering what the hell is wrong with them.  Some of you out there haven’t yet had the good fortune of experiencing a tee ball game, I thought I would give you a primer on what you can expect. So, here is my breakdown of the kinds of kids who play tee ball.

Butterfly Chaser: This kid is not into tee ball, and is participating in the activity mostly because their parents either want them to pick up the game, or just want them out of the house. Most of the time, the Butterfly Chaser is not paying attention to what is going on in the game. He or she will be staring at any possible distraction in the field, and will often get hit by the ball, another player chasing the ball, or often both. The disinterest in the game may even cause the player to take off their helmet and run to a shiny object while making their way to first base.

Nervous Nelly: This tee baller is generally bashful, yet interested in the game. They participate fully until A) they come near another player, or B) a parent or coach yells something to them. Running the bases is especially difficult for this players, as the minefield of little kids between bases causes them to start and stop ten or more times on the base paths. Nervous Nellies hit well, but tend to stay at home base for a few minutes after hitting while everyone on the field is yelling at them to run to first base.

Bowling Pin: Kids with this tendency love baseball, but don’t know what to do with all the energy. Once a ball is put in play, the Bowling Pins all fall down in unison, regardless of where the ball is hit. The Pins then proceed to roll around on the ground until the coaches scream at them to get back up and go to their positions. In Malcolm’s last game, there were a grand total of seven Bowling Pins on the other team, causing the end of each play to look like a fraternity house the morning after a party.

Dogpiler: Dogpilers also love baseball, but are consumed by primal urges once play begins. They see the ball, and do everything in their power to be the one who comes up with the precious at the end of the play. The first kid to get the ball is usually the worst off as they are jumped on by every other dogpiler on the team. Games with a large population of dogpilers more closely resemble rugby scrums, as each play ends with coaches peeling off players one by one until the ball is finally located.

Spaz: The spaz has a love of the game and a limitless amount of energy. Position assignments don’t mean much to the Spaz as they seem to always make their way to the center of the action regardless of where they started when the play began. The Spaz is moving even when nothing is happening, running around in circles and jumping around making pretend plays. Malcolm is definitely a Spaz, and I laughed every time he ran in from left field to back up plays at first.

Tee ball is fun activity to watch because each team is made up of a combination of each type of players. While Nervous Nellies are wetting themselves dodging the Bowling Pins and Dogpilers, Butterfly Chasers are looking for Easter Eggs, and Spazzes are running all over the place. I have never been in battle, but I imagine that the carnage at the Battle Of Bull Run looked a lot like the triple that Malcolm’s teammate hit yesterday. I, for one, couldn’t be happier.

Our car window. Our Honda Accord is almost ten years old, and it is starting to show signs of wear, most notably the fact that the driver’s side window is broken. Whenever I need to roll down the window and talk to someone on the street, I instinctively push the button to make the window go down before realizing that I now drive a hooptie and am one step away from having a car whose door handle is an old piece of rope. If you think it easy communicating with a parking lot attendant through a tiny crack in an open door it’s not. It’s embarrassing, and makes me mad. Sure, I could spend the small fortune it would take to fix the stupid thing, but if I did, the terrorists would win. Surely.

Pretend baseball. Everyone’s kid does something all the time that at first is kinda cute, but then starts to annoy you to the point where you wish you never stopped contracepting. For us, that is now pretend baseball. About thirty times a day, Malcolm asks who we are rooting for, and then names two teams (the most popular being the Floridelphia Marlins and the Cinfernatti Reds.) He then proceeds to run around the house pretending he is playing and then invariably tells you that the team you were “rooting” for lost by some large margin (last night the Giants lost to the Dodgers 130 to 0 and I am still pissed about it.) Eventually, he suckers you into playing catch and then actually playing the game itself, where you have to be the catcher, the umpire, and all of the other team. About the time you realize you are doing most of the work, you tell Malcolm you don’t want to play anymore, which leads him to start whining and forces you to look into a full time nanny.

The stuff in our house. Our house is in a state of disarray which leads guests to the conclusion that we are about to be featured on an episode of Cops. There are piles of shit everywhere and I fear there may be small rodents lurking about in them. I would get rid of the piles except for the fact that I have no idea where to put anything. So, most of the stuff in our house eventually makes its way to our office, which has the same role as the dead pile on a farm. Every year or so, I clean the office and promise that it will never get that bad, making Amy roll her eyes before turning her head at the rustling from the pile of papers in the corner. Most of the time, she utters, “Damn Varmints!”, and I am not sure if she is referring to the rodents or me.

I can't even see my feet anymore!

My boobs. I have the boobs of a perky high school freshman and if I don’t make any changes soon, I will one day be the prom queen. (I should also be quite upset at my muffin top of a belly that allows entire knit sweaters to lurk in my belly button instead of mere clumps of lint, but I can’t get past looking at my rack in the mirror. Yowza!) There are some people who “work out” by going to a place called a “gym,” but those are the kind of people who having working car windows, love playing with their kid, and don’t live in mortal fear of the accumulated stuff in their house. I am not that kind of person, but one day I hope to be. Until then, when you see me constantly moving so that you never get a profile shot of  my “Heavage,” you’ll know why.

What’s annoying you?

We have had it good up until now. Malcolm has been pretty low maintenance so far when it comes to packing for vacation. He never had a must-have blanket or a pacifier, or even a favorite stuffed animal such that if we forgot said item while on vacation, a riot would ensue. Sure, there have been times when I forgot to bring enough diapers on the airplane (in my defense though, who would have thought he’d shit seven times in one flight? Seven times!!!), but for the most part, things have been pretty flexible as to what to bring on vacation.

Is this guy dressed for the beach?

We’re not so lucky anymore. Malcolm is obsessed with baseball. Not obsessed like me, as in I follow the team, watch as many games as I can and get really depressed when the Giants don’t win the world series. No, Malcolm is obsessed in a “Hey I like you so much that I want to cut off your face and wear it on top of mine” sort of way. His love of the game is all consuming, so if we are not playing baseball outside, we are playing pretend baseball inside.  I have played around 1400 innings of pretend baseball inside, so it brings me about as much pleasure as taking a breath or making a sandwich. As such, I needed to make sure there were abundant opportunities to play real live baseball here in Hawaii.

That meant I needed to bring our baseball gear. If TSA searched our bag (which they surely did) next to the sunscreen and my teenie bikini, they would have found Malcolm’s aluminum bat, our mitts, and a bevy of baseballs which we’ll use to practice while we’re here. Just to make sure we had enough options at the beach, I also brought our fat plastic bat and a whiffle ball. I didn’t want those nosy TSA people to think we are weird baseball people, so I put some lube next to the bats with a note attached that read, “For our German friends.” Truth is, we ARE weird baseball people and I just need to come to grips with it.

Of course, when you give a kid an inch, he takes a mile. When we got here, Malcolm asked where his bases were. His bases weight approximately 500 pounds and I knew there was no way I was going to sneak it by TSA (Germans are weird, but nobody is that weird). So, after a brief period of disappointment, I was able to sell Malcolm on the idea that huge Hawaiian leaves were way cooler than our silly old bases in Oakland. He reluctantly agreed, and now, while others are at the beach, or frolicking in the pool, we are down at the rec center, playing baseball with real baseballs and metal bats. A little on the odd side, but I guess it could be worse. He could be into ice skating!

Any of you bring weird stuff on vacation?