Fun? You Want to Have Fun? HAH!

I know that I am far from being the Best Parent in the World and I will be the first one to admit that I make plenty of mistakes. However, when it comes to five- or even six-year-olds, there are a few things that I'm pretty sure about:

1. Sometimes kids need to run around a couch and play tag instead of sitting on the couch, practicing multiplication problems. Especially on the weekends.
2. When at a pool and swimming with a friend it's much more fun, and sometimes just as productive, to see who can do the biggest cannonball and swim back to the wall first, instead of always having to practice a back float/front crawl/back stroke.
3. There are times when it's perfectly acceptable for kids to sing and dance around a room together, instead of sitting quietly and reading books.
4. An hour or two of video game time, even daily, doesn't cause a kid's brain to fall out of their head.
5. A kid's body is not designed to play one sport five days a week, three hours a day, 52 weeks a year, no matter how much "they love the sport and want to be there."
6. During a one-hour lesson of any kind, a six-year-old does not pay attention all the time and may even laugh really loud once in a while. If they don't laugh, then that means they're not having fun, and that's kind of a problem.

A current thorn in my side right now that seems to be gouging deeper and deeper each week is a family that has taken competitive parenting to an entirely new level. Their son is never in the pool to have fun, he's only there to become a better and stronger swimmer. He's never allowed to laugh and make up funny songs with his friends because that is time that could be spent doing something educational. Since he has shown an interest in playing tennis, and they insist that he will be the best at everything, he is on the court four or five days a week, taking private lessons and hitting ball after ball. After ball.

In tennis -- like most other sports -- there is only so much, physically and mentally, that you can expect from a child. You can't teach a five-year-old the same way you teach a 12-year-old, so why would you expect the younger kid to hit with the same technique, the same power, or on the same size court as the older kid? You wouldn't put a kindergardener on an adult-size bike, or make tee-ballers run major league base paths, right?

Unfortunately, these parents have decided that their way is the best, and most impressive way, even though their way is insane and more harmful to their son's development than helpful. They have went so far as to tell the coach that he is doing things wrong: using the wrong balls, the wrong size court, that he should be having their son serve the ball from the baseline because, after all, "he can, so he should."

Now, maybe I'm way off on this, but I always thought that the reason you hire and pay someone else to do a job is because that person knows more about the sport/subject/hobby than you do. I don't drop my minivan off for service so that I can hover over the mechanic and tell him how to change the oil. When I was at the dentist getting a crown, I didn't tell him that I wanted him to try a different, less-sucky technique (Well, actually I did, but my suggestion was just "you should provide margaritas before procedures like this). And even though I play piano, I don't even tell my kids' piano teacher what to do at the lessons, because I'm paying her to give the lessons the way she thinks is best, not to give the lessons the way I told her to.

Being around these particular parents always reminds me of the movie "Parenthood," where there is one family that has a kid who wears a bucket on his head and another family that has a little girl that speaks three languages and does complicated math problems in her head. Take for example, a couple hours on a Saturday afternoon when I'm swimming with Zoe and this family is in the pool with us. They have their son refining his swimming strokes while they yell "Kick! Kick! Use your arms more!" I, on the other hand, am sending Zoe soaring through the air with her limbs flailing, no fewer than 28 times in a row, and between launches she is singing "The Diarrhea Song" at the top of her lungs. Does this scenario make me uncomfortable? Definitely, but only because I know that Zoe is having fun discovering that she can make great poop sounds using her mouth and a wet arm and this poor kid is watching her out the corner of his eye while he kicks, kicks and uses his arms more.

The sad thing for me is the fact that Zoe and this boy get along really well and have become great friends. When I pointed this fact out to the mom, her response was "Well, yeah, there are times when I think they get along too well. I wish they would pay attention more often and take all these lessons a little more seriously. Oh, and by the way, are you guys swimming after tennis?"

Gosh, let me think. Maybe, umm, no. I think that there will be no swimming this afternoon. I think that we will go do something else where Zoe doesn't have to worry about being a distraction, impressing anyone, or grossest of all, stepping over a puddle of pee because someone's kid didn't make it to the bathroom on time and peed on the floor. Yes, hyper-competitive lady, we all know that it was your over-achieving kid that peed on the floor. And that day, at least for me, was pretty fun.

Yes, They Practice

When people find out that Zach and Charlie take piano lessons, one of the first questions they ask is, "How old were they when they started lessons," and then they always ask, "How do you get them to practice?" Zach started lessons when he was four, Charlie was six, Zoe will start this fall and as far as practicing, it depends on the day.

Thanks to the monotony of Monday through Friday I never have to remind them to practice during the week because it's something that has become as automatic as brushing their teeth or being a smart ass. But any time there is a change to our schedule, like a day off from school or a weekend, I usually have to remind at least one of them that the piano isn't in our house for decorative purposes.

Did their practicing schedule fall into place the instant they started lessons? No way. After the initial excitement wore off, they discovered that learning how to play the piano is hard. It took at least three or four years before they actually wanted to practice and wanted to get better without being reminded by me, in a very loud voice, to put their ass on the piano bench five times a week.

Fortunately for me, the boys are both really competitive and don't like to publicly suck at the things that they have put time into. They've both seen other students show up at recitals unprepared and have watched them cry on stage, make huge errors, and sometimes even forget how to play their song. Neither of them ever wants to go through this embarrassing experience and they know that the only way to be prepared is to practice.

Since I took several years of piano lessons while growing up and still try to play when I have time, I think that a big motivator for them is that they want to be better than me. After all, they can kick my ass at tennis, they're better at video games than me, so eventually being able to play more difficult piano pieces is bound to happen. I figured since Zach's been taking lessons for about 10 years, I still have a slight advantage over him. And then I took a look at what he's currently learning:

Hmm...maybe I'll start encouraging him to not practice and I should be putting my ass on that piano bench more often.

P.S. Happy birthday, dad. Thanks for paying for all my piano lessons.

The Competitive Bedtime

When Zach was little, his bedtime was an elaborate production that included a bath, three stories read in exactly the same order using the exact same tone of voice, a bizarre script of "bye I love you night night" chanted in a well-rehearsed tempo, and placing a certain stuffed animal by the door. If any of this ridiculous routine was done incorrectly, all hell would break loose and we'd have to start the entire process over again. Needless to say, not many people jumped at the opportunity to get this kid to sleep.

Charlie, on the other hand, loved his bed and we never had the need to do a nightly bath or bedtime routine. He never made a single request for a glass of water or one more story, and would happily collapse into his bed and read Spiderman comic books. There were quite a few times when I snuck into his room after he was asleep to turn off his light and peel the comic book off of his sweaty face, leaving a faint outline of The Green Goblin on his forehead.

Zoe's bedtime usually goes fine, but since she knows that everyone else is still awake and having fun after she's in bed, she sometimes tries to stall. Since she is our third kid and I usually have other things to do after 8pm, I refuse to allot more than ten minutes from when the phrase "It's bedtime" is uttered to when I shut her door. Considering the fact that I've just spent most of the day with her and really need her to just go to bed, quite a few nights involve some raised voices. In fact, sometimes I even yell.

Since she is so competitive, I've decided to incorporate her hatred of losing into bedtime. All it takes is for me to say: "Hey, I bet you can't get your teeth brushed, go to the bathroom, get pajamas on, and get in bed without yelling or whining. I'll bet you end up being naughty at some point before I shut your door. And when you do, I'm going to be the winner. And I love to win."

"No way! I'm going to win! There's no way I'm going to be naughty!" The first night she said this, I thought I was a genius. Why hadn't I been doing this all along?

Sure enough, she let me chisel the hunks of Sour Patch Kids off of her teeth without objecting. She used the bathroom without me having to ask her four times. She put her pajamas on while singing a Lady GaGa song. When she was under the covers, she looked at me and said: "Ha. I win, you lose. Told ya so. Good night."

"Yep, you beat me. I lost. But tomorrow night I'm going to win." Six minutes, start to finish.

This continued for a few nights, and it started feeling a little too rehearsed. I decided to give the whole competition angle a break, and wanted to see if maybe she'd been conditioned into just behaving for the sake of being good, rather than just to win. When we got to the bathroom, she picked up her toothbrush, looked at me and said: "It's fine. You can win. I've already won a whole lot of times. Oh, and GIVE ME THE TOOTHPASTE I CAN DO IT MYSELF!"

Two Million? Is That All?

If you asked me to choose between either taking a stroll through piranha-infested waters or playing a board game, I'd probably ask: "Well, can I wear my flip-flops? The lake bottom seems kind of rocky." The fact that the rest of my family loves board games fascinates me. Just the thought of having to sit in one place for more than twenty minutes, rolling a set of dice that I have no control over, and potentially losing at something makes me sweat.

Because of my analness, one thing I hate even more than playing the game is seeing bent-up Monopoly money scattered around the game board or crumpled up under a couch cushion. When I found the Electronic Banking edition for the boys, I figured it was the perfect gift. After all, reviews have said that this version makes "setup and cleanup so much easier." Those are words that make me happy.

Last night, after Christmas dinner was scarfed and before the gingerbread was sliced, they ripped off the shrink wrap, selected their game pieces (a Segway, a flatscreen TV, a tin of Altoids, and other "modern icons"), picked a bank card color, and started figuring out the new rules. Everyone starts with $15 million (just like in real life!) and instead of property being bought in amounts of $100, $250 or $500, it's now in terms of K's and millions. Now, when you pass "GO" you say, "Hand over 2 million please!"

For the next fifteen minutes, I heard Zoe saying: "Sure, I'll buy South Beach. Woo Hoo! I get to buy Disney World! Yeah, I want Wrigley Field." At the same time, Zach kept complaining: "It sucks to go last. You are definitely at a disadvantage. All of you have at least twice as much property as me. Oh good, I get to go to jail. I guess it's safe to say I've pretty much lost!" These are the phrases I am all too familiar with, but usually it's me saying them. His real scare came when Charlie, who was managing the bank card calculator, informed Zach that he was down to $6.5 million.

"What? How can it be so low? Where did all my money go?" Seriously, these are questions that 40-somethings were just asking about a year ago. Hearing a 13-year-old ask that was a little unnerving.

"Oh. Sorry. I mean $16.5 million. My bad." Unfortunately, this is not the answer that those 40-somethings had the pleasure of receiving. Zach let out a loud sigh of relief and managed to not lunge across the table to smack his brother in the head.

According to the game description, "The bank cards operate more like debit than credit, so players will learn responsible money management, not how to run up credit card debt." Well, that's all fine and good, but hearing someone that still has meltdowns and thinks that Ring Pops are expensive say, "Sure, I'll buy O'Hare for $2 million" definitely takes some getting used to.

When Doug wasn't getting me a beer or rescuing Zoe from "the grossest ladybug ever," he was landing on all of her properties, and paying her $170K, $200K, and then $220K. After landing on the fourth property, he said: "Geez Zoe. It seems like all I'm doing is giving you money." Unfortunately, I have a feeling this isn't the last time I'll ever hear this phrase.

Psycho Sundays

During the week, Zoe and I have a pretty predictable schedule and she is almost always well behaved. After she gets home from kindergarten, we have lunch together, talk about her day, and then she catches up with her toys and will occasionally watch a little Tom & Jerry. Sometimes we'll play a board game or do some shopping, but mostly she loves having this time to herself before the boys get home from school and the chaos of the evening begins.

Since the rest of the week can get so hectic, I try to keep Sundays as open as possible, and this jolt to the schedule seems to throw Zoe for a loop. Instead of just hanging out with me, everyone is home. This means that there are more candidates for board games, video games, or Uno, which creates more opportunities for her to lose. She holds it together pretty well if she loses once, or even twice. But if she loses at a variety of games throughout the day, the frustration becomes unbearable and she ends up making John McEnroe look like Sportsman of the Year.

There were a couple times yesterday when I thought she was going to have to forfeit every single present under the tree. She hauled off and whacked Doug in the leg, she tried to cheat at Dora Candyland, she screamed at Zach and then hid in her closet, she tried to cheat at Uno, and then she got mad at Zach again while playing Wii. Fortunately for her, Zach thinks her competitiveness is pretty funny, and although he gets annoyed when she's threatening to hit him over the head with the game board, he's able to laugh about it later.

Around 6:00 last night, she came outside while I shoveled the driveway and I watched while she hurled her body off of a snowbank over and over again while bellowing, "Heee-yaaaah! Waaaahhoooo!" and threw ice chunks at a miniature snowman that Charlie built in the cul-de-sac. Except for having to occasionally pause so that I could readjust her mitten or put a hat back on, she cathartically flailed around for about 45 minutes, ridding herself of all traces of pent up aggression.

Maybe I need to be more realistic about expecting her to have a "relaxing" Sunday. After all, even though I kept yesterday open and didn't drive anywhere, it was filled with laundry, a little bit of cleaning, nagging kids, seven hours of cookie baking, shoveling snow, and shouting at a couple football games. I guess if she truly is my daughter and blessed with my genetics, being stationary and quiet for more than ten minutes at a time isn't going to happen. Since she's only five, I'm sure I'll have to tolerate a few more Sundays of listening to her complain because someone is in her way and getting pissed off after a loss. And then when she's a little older, instead of yelling at everyone the instant she gets frustrated, she can write a blog.

Tennis? Yes. Peas? No.

Thanks to the snow last night, I was able to spend an evening at home making pork chops, peas, and mashed potatoes instead of driving Zoe to her tennis lesson. After seeing the peas on the stove, she announced, "I'm not going to eat dinner, no way man, not hungry, not gonna happen." Instead of offering to make her something else, I simply said: "Okay. Don't eat. But if you're hungry later, this is what you're having." Was I worried about her starving to death? No, and unlike another family I know, I wasn't worried about the long-term repercussions of her missed tennis lesson, either.

Although it may seem like we have become a family that is consumed by tennis, I've realized that we are no where near as intense as some others. Yes, I re-grip racquets, drive to lessons, sign the boys up for tournaments, make sure that they're at their matches on time, and pack coolers. I also insist that they be good sports on and off the court, and as a result they always have fun at tournaments, whether they are winning or losing.

We have encountered families that have their kids on the court six days a week, promote cheating, racquet smashing, screaming, on-court crying, and the line calling strategy known as, "when in doubt, call it out." There is one family in particular (let's call their son "Ivan") that takes competitiveness and cheating to a whole new level. The father will stand near Ivan's court and coach him throughout the match, yelling at him in Russian. He has been told several times that coaching is not allowed during a tournament match, but refuses to abide by the rules. I suppose I could be super sneaky and try to coach my boys in Spanish, but I don't know how helpful it would be if I was lurking behind the baseline yelling: "Cerveza! Por favor! Margarita! Hola! Hola! Mucha cerveza! Chips and salsa! Adios!"

When Ivan's family is at tournaments, it adds stress to the whole event. They show up late for their matches, the mom will verbally berate the opponent's parents and accuse them of raising a cheater, the tournament director always has to keep an eye on the dad, and if Ivan is losing he will whine loudly and smash his racquet. I'd like to say the whole thing is funny to watch, but really it's embarrassing and sad.

Charlie beat Ivan at a tournament this past summer, and it was not a pretty sight. Charlie played great, and Ivan spent quite a bit of time flopping down on the court and yelling. A couple days later, the dad went to the club and decided to stoop to a new low by telling anyone who would listen that: "That Chinese kid, Charlie, the only reason he beat Ivan is because he's a cheater. He called every ball out even if it was in, and he's a cheater." Needless to say, Ivan's dad and I ended up having a little confrontation, and he now knows that not only is Charlie not Chinese, he's not a cheater.

Zoe is five-years old. She hates peas, but she loves tennis, and would probably play every day if I was willing to drive her there, and pay for it. But if she was on the court every day at the age of five, she will want to play zero days when she is 16. And I don't know of any college willing to recruit a kindergartner.

Realistic Expectations

Since I have two boys, I think it is important to teach them critical survival skills. These include basic things like how to make a piece of toast, how to throw a spiral, parallel parking, and knowing not to hit a girl unless the punch in the arm is code for "Hey, I really like you." And even though the boys are pretty good about picking up after themselves, they don't really know how to clean, and it has become obvious that they definitely don't know how to wipe up their own pee.

It doesn't matter if I clean the bathroom once a week or once a day, there is always pee on the toilet in the kids' bathroom. Sometimes, when the quantity is borderline unbearable, I'll ask the boys how they function at school since they seem to be suffering from unexplained temporary blindness, never seeing the small pond of urine that they left on the back of the toilet.

"It wasn't me," Zach always says. "I know how to aim."

"Maybe it was Zoe," Charlie will add. "Because I know it wasn't me either."

At this point, I am always disappointed by their lack of creativity when figuring out who to blame. Does Charlie really think that a five-year-old girl, whose legs don't even touch the floor when she's on the toilet, is going to maneuver her ass all the way to the back of the seat just so she can pee there and get her brothers in trouble? Actually, now that I think about it, this scenario is possible, but the puddle would have been bigger.

It seems to me that if chimpanzees can be taught how to use a computer, and an African Grey Parrot can learn a vocabulary of 950 words, it isn't unrealistic to expect human boys to grab an extra wad of toilet paper and wipe up some pee. Perhaps, even, wrap their opposable digits around that bristly thing on a long stick and clean the toilet.

Doug suggested that we turn aiming into a competitive sport with an elaborate point system, creating an electronic urinal cake that recognizes when it's been hit with a steady stream of pee and says "HEADSHOT" in that voice from Halo. This might work, but then I'd be worried about them getting confused and peeing on the TV instead. Then they'd just blame the dog.

The Givver-Upper

I admit that I'm a slightly competitive person. I really dislike losing, and will avoid it whenever possible. I don't enjoy playing board games, cards, or keeping score of any kind. Unless, of course, I know I have a clear advantage and will, without a doubt, win. I love watching sports, but never get my hopes too high for my team to win, just in case they lose. Winning makes me happy, and losing really pisses me off.

Doug is also competitive, but in a different way. He will play any card or board game, most video games, and is great at almost every sport because he has a low tolerance for sucking at things. Because of the fact that we like to be married to each other, we never play on opposing teams of any kind, and we never keep score when we play tennis. I just assume that every time he hits a drop shot, he's only being courteous and making sure I get a good workout.

When Zach was two, we bought him the game "Hi Ho! Cherry-O." He was fascinated by the concept of counting and sorting, and we figured this would be the perfect game for him. Everything was going great, until it was his turn and the spinner arrow came to rest on the dreaded "spilled basket." He stared at his blue bucket, looked at me, and then kicked the game board, sending plastic cherries soaring across the room. Apparently he would rather default and take a trip to the naughty step than be forced to place all of those cherries back on that tree.

We should have known that two competitive people would create competitive children, but we had no idea just how much damage our genetics would do. So far, it's been an interesting education, and we have found that the competitiveness increases in magnitude with the arrival of each kid. Zoe proves this theory day after day, and yesterday was no different.

While she was playing Mario Kart on her Nintendo DS, Charlie watched with amazement at how good she is at maneuvering Bowser on a ROB-legs. He then went to get his DS, suggesting that they play the game together.

"Maybe, no. Because will there be a winner? Are you going to win sometimes?" she asked.

"No, Zoe. We can be on a team." And with that statement, she happily agreed, as long as there was no chance of him winning.

After dinner, all 3 kids were playing a game together, involving magnets and strategy. Everyone was having fun until one of Zoe's moves didn't go the way she intended it to.

"I'm done with this game. Forget it. I'm so done." she said as she slammed one of the magnets on the table.

"Zoe, don't get so upset. It's okay. You'll get another turn later. Don't quit." Zach is a great big brother with infinite patience and he really, really loves this girl.

"No. Forget it. I give up." she said, getting down from her chair.

"Fine. Be a givver-upper." I guess even infinite patience has it's limits.

Lately, we've been trying to make her more receptive to the possibility of losing. If it's checkers, I'll take advantage of the triple jump. When Doug plays Uno with her, he won't always overlook playing the blue card. If we're playing baseball, we aren't always clumsy fools and we'll manage to field the grounder cleanly and tag her out. Sometimes the boys are nice enough to play Monopoly Junior Dig 'n Dinos with her and I'll hear her say "Oh yeah! Dangett! Yeah baby, bring it! That rocks! Wooo! I'm gonna get that money! What? Darnett!", but as long as there aren't plastic dinosaur footprints ricocheting off the walls, I know that progress is being made.

Recently, we were headed home from a tennis tournament and Zoe wanted to see Zach's trophy. When he tried to give it to her after she waited patiently for 42 seconds, she refused, saying "No. I don't want to see it. I'm going to win my own tennis tournament and get my own trophy. When I'm 8." Something tells me that she'll accomplish this goal, but first she has to be willing to keep score, and learn how to lose.