Father Knows Nothing

And on Super Bowl Sunday, Father Knows Nothing rests.

Back next week.

My three boys have very few things in common. They have totally different strengths, weaknesses and interests. But they do share one important bond: Pure, unadulterated glee when they beat their father at something. It’s the only time I ever see them rooting for each other.

When Tommy got his first ACT score in the mail, there were high-fives all around. His brothers weren’t excited for him just because he got a good score. They were more excited that he had beaten my score. Tommy, the least competitive kid I’ve ever met, held the paper in the air and waved it at me.

When Johnny advanced to his most recent rank in Boy Scouts, there were pats on the back from the sibling peanut gallery. His brothers weren’t excited for him because it was such an impressive achievement. They were excited that he had advanced beyond my highest Boy Scout rank, which meant even more. There was some taunting that night; Johnny even pointed at me from the stage while he was being awarded the patch.

And now Sean is obsessed with beating me. He knows how many goals I scored in my soccer career, so every time he scores, the first thing he says to me is how many more it will take before he beats my record. He scored three goals in the last week, and now he’s within sniffing distance. It’s just a matter of time and we all know it. His brothers, who never, and I mean NEVER root for him, are cheering him on.

There is something about the father-son relationship that brings this out in nearly every son. I’ll never forget when I finally became taller than my dad. That was a proud moment for me; an in your face, pops, look at me now, I’m bigger than you are, moment.

But here’s the part I never understood when I was the son-half of the competition. The father-half of the competition doesn’t look at it the same way at all. Every time the boys beat me at something I don’t get upset that I’ve been bested (although I pretend to get upset because that really makes them happy). In fact, when they achieve something I never achieved (despite trying very hard to achieve it), I can barely contain my pride.

Just don’t tell them that, OK?

It will totally ruin their fun.

My buddy Dave and I often commiserate about the insanely detailed shopping lists we get from our wives. (A few great examples are here, if you’re interested).

Well, this week, something incredible happened to Dave. His wife actually asked him to make a shopping list for her, because she hadn’t been around all week and didn’t know what they needed in the house.

He couldn’t resist. This is the list he gave her…

English Muffins (no high fructose corn syrup, from the Klieder region in Northlumbard, UK)

Bacon, no nitrites, 100% natural, kentucky pork…Alabama also ok

Bread (baked by druids)

Butter (whipped, salted and blessed by pope)

Milk (organic, from Bavarian Maidens)

Cream cheese (from Baltimore, not Philadelphia)

Sliced cheese (1/8″ thick, no more, period)

Cereal (woodbark preferably)

Lunch meat (head cheese)

Crackers (shaped like little berets)

Juice (pomegranate, kiwi, guava mix only)

Dave deodorant (as many chemicals as possible)

Toms toothpaste (must be manufactured by a guy named Tom, need COA)

Organic steak

Hot dogs

Frozen vegetables (Black Mexican Radish, Amish grown only)

Bananas only if cheap

Berries (White or Chuck)

Organic Bavarian Witch hazel

Here’s the funny part to me. He copied me on his e-mail to his wife, and I didn’t look at the subject line that closely, so I just assumed that it was one of his wife’s real lists he was forwarding to me. It did seem a bit extreme, but honestly, not that much worse than her other lists.

I didn’t doubt it’s authenticity until I got to the butter. C’mon, Dave. Everyone knows that the Pope is from Germany. They don’t eat salted butter in Germany.

Rookie mistake.

The first snow of the year is always an exciting event for the boys. When they left for school in the morning on Thursday they knew the weatherman was calling for snow, so they pulled out their snow pants and boots in anticipation. When school was over, a few inches of the white stuff was already on the ground, and they knew what they had to do.

Within seconds of coming home, Sean was dressed in his snow gear, and on his way over to his friend’s house to go sledding. Johnny was working the phones for snow play pals, and even I was getting into the spirit. I started humming “Winter Wonderland”.

“Christmas is over,” Johnny reminded me as he looked up a friend’s phone number. “You can’t sing Christmas songs anymore.”

“‘Winter Wonderland’ isn’t about Christmas at all,” I pointed out. “It’s about snow.”

I continued humming, and he continued looking for the number.

“It’s too bad it didn’t snow for Christmas this year,” he lamented. “Christmas wasn’t the same without snow.”

“Yeah, it would have been nice to have had a White Christmas,” I responded. I shifted my humming to that famous song.

“Now that song definitely says Christmas,” Johnny pointed out.

“That’s an easy fix,” I said. “I’ll just change the words. What’s the next holiday coming up? Groundhog’s Day? How about this: ‘I’m dreaming of a white Groundhogs day.’ See? It doesn’t need to be about Christmas. It can still be about snow. Any holiday works just as well.”

“Actually, the next holiday isn’t Groundhogs day” he corrected me, “It’s Martin Luther King day.”

“Fine,” I said, and starting singing it. “I’m dreaming of a white…”

I stopped singing it just in time.

Turns out, the whole lyric substitution thing isn’t appropriate for every holiday.

It’s become an annual tradition that I share my family Christmas letter with everyone. Obviously it’s more of a parody of a Christmas letter than a real one, but it does include an actual recap of our year…

2011 was another exciting year in the Kaempfer household!

*In February we got two feet of snow in one night. It was so deep it took all five of us six hours to shovel the driveway. The first few feet were done with some urgency…when a dog’s gotta go, a dog’s gotta go.

*For Lent this year, Rick and Bridget gave up eating meat, drinking alcohol, and yelling at the kids. Just their luck, Lent was 7047 days long this year.

*In June a tornado literally went right down our street, uprooting trees, knocking over power lines, and damaging roofs. It somehow doesn’t sound right anymore to say the boys’ bedrooms look like they were hit by a tornado. Turns out, dirty socks aren’t really a tornado trademark.

*In June the toilet broke because one of the boys tried to flush his vegetables to get out of eating them. Who could have known that a stalk of celery wouldn’t flush?

*In July the family took a 20-hour road trip to Hilton Head Island for a mini-family reunion. Aside from a few jellyfish stings to Sean & Johnny, and an unscheduled emergency stop to get an oil change (something Bridget had clearly told Rick to get before the trip), it was a lot of fun.

*In August Rick took Tommy to see Paul McCartney at Wrigley Field. Tommy loved it! The show set a record for most hits in Wrigley Field by someone not facing Cubs pitching.

*In September Rick had a writing assignment in Italy, and took Bridget along. Unfortunately, in order to make their flight they had to leave Sean’s 9th birthday party in the middle of the party. They’ll be picking up their “Parents of the Year” award later this month.

*In October Tommy turned 16 years old. He’s officially old enough to drive now, but hasn’t even asked if he can take Driver’s Ed. The drivers of Illinois gave thanks on Thanksgiving.

*In November Rick and Bridget celebrated their 20th wedding anniversary. Rick picked her up in a long stretch-limo with a red rose clenched in his teeth, and they danced until dawn. (That, or they had dinner at a restaurant and went to sleep by 9:30. Can’t remember which one.)

*In December Rick’s latest novel “The Living Wills” (co-written with Brendan Sullivan) was released by Eckhartz Press (Rick’s new publishing company). As the co-owner of the press, Rick gets a list of all the credit card purchases every day. A word of warning: He was heard muttering something about keeping a “naughty” and “nice” list based on who is or isn’t buying the book. (For those care at all about being on the nice list, it’s available at www.eckhartzpress.com)

Hope you all have a wonderful holiday season this year, and an even better 2012!

I probably shouldn’t be so giddy getting the boys ready to return to school today. They don’t seem to share my enthusiasm.

I hope everyone has a wonderful New Year!

Father Knows Nothing will return with a brand new column next week.

It’s time to hit the holiday party circuit, but we have discovered a sure-fire way of keeping track of the kids this season. Feel free to give it a try yourself…

My youngest son Sean was talking to his buddy in his room. I was around the corner in the kitchen, but I could hear them talking. The topic of their conversation was the upcoming Christmas vacation, which inevitably led to the following discussion…

Sean’s Friend: My brother says there is no Santa Claus.

Sean: Then who gives us those presents?

Sean’s Friend: Your mom and dad.

Sean: No way.

Sean’s Friend: Yes way.

Sean: No way. You know my dad. Is there anything he hates more than video games?

Sean’s Friend: I guess not.

Sean: Do you have any idea how much a Wii costs?

Sean’s Friend: No.

Sean: Or an iPod? Or a DS?

Sean’s Friend: A lot of money, I guess.

Sean: My dad would never spend a lot of money on us, especially not for electronics. He won’t even let us play on them most of the time. So who do you think gave us that Wii or iPod or DS for Christmas the last few years, Dad or Santa?

Sean’s Friend: Good point.

Sean: Tell your brother that.

And with that, the discussion was closed. Proof positive had been presented and accepted, your honor.

I’m just glad that my cheapness and intolerance for noisy electronic devices could play a small part in spreading holiday joy this season.

A few weeks ago, our washing machine broke in mid-wash cycle, leaving the basin full of half-washed clothes and soapy water. Bridget was helping me get the clothes out of there, and as she was wringing a pair of jeans she said: “You know what the problem is, don’t you? You put too many clothes in each load.”

If Las Vegas took bets on such things, I would have a made a fortune. I imagine the scene at the betting window going something like this…

“What are the current odds for ‘She blames Rick for putting too many clothes in each load’.”

“That’s even money,” the lady at the betting window would say.

“Thousand dollars please,” I would reply.

I’ve been doing the laundry in our house for five years now, and it goes very well when I’m at home by myself. On the rare occasions Bridget is here when I do it, or if she comes home when there’s still a load in the dryer, she always criticizes my technique. And it’s always, and I mean always followed by: “You’ll break the washing machine someday.”

So, needless to say, I was dreading the report from the washing machine repairman.

I was home alone when he came over to the house the next day. He looked at the machine for about five minutes, and proclaimed…”Your timer blew out. We can get you another one, and it will be as good as new.”

It took a moment to sink in, but before he walked out to his truck to get the part, I realized what he had just said to me.

“You mean this has nothing to do with big laundry loads?”

“No,” he said. “It’s just typical wear and tear on your timer. The more times you do laundry, the more it stresses the timer. It’s just a matter of time, no pun intended, before the thing blows out.”

“So,” I said, “Let me get this straight. What you’re saying here is that it’s the number of times we do laundry that stresses the timer. If I had done more loads of laundry, it would have actually broken even sooner, right?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” he said.

“So all this time,” I continued, my chest puffing out, “I was actually saving this washing machine by having bigger loads. In fact, you could even say that I’m an environmental hero of sorts, because my bigger loads required less water–which saved our precious water supply, and less detergent which didn’t release as many harmful chemicals into the environment, and less energy, which means less of a strain on our electrical grid.”

The washing machine repairman was grinning from ear to ear.

“Did you have an argument with your wife about this?” he asked.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Would you mind writing this down on a piece of paper for me. It would really help me out.”

He chuckled as he jotted it down. “By the way,” he said, “You know she’s right about not having such big loads. That stresses the washing machine in other ways.”

“Don’t ruin this moment for me,” I said.

Honestly, I’ve never been so happy to spend $257 in my life.