My middle son Johnny’s best friend recently moved to Poland, and I’ve been having flashbacks about my own childhood ever since.

His friend was born in America to Polish parents, but when the economy got bad, his parents decided they had a better chance of making ends meet back in their homeland. So, they moved back to Poland, even though all of their kids (all five) had never been there.

The exact same thing happened to me and my siblings in the 1970s. Except we didn’t move to Poland; we moved to Germany.

And it happened just as suddenly. My Dad came home from work one day and said: “We’re moving to Germany.” Within a few weeks we were gone.

I had the same type of upbringing as Johnny’s friend. We spoke German in our home. We lived in a Chicago neighborhood that was entirely German. We socialized with Germans, attended sporting events (soccer games) with Germans, and went to stores owned and operated by Germans.

It wasn’t until we moved out to the suburbs that we began to integrate into American society. Moving to the suburbs meant moving out of our comfortable German bubble and into America proper.

How German were we? My mother actually sent me to the first day of kindergarten dressed in lederhosen because she had no idea how strange that looked to the other kids. I had to learn English in school. I played a sport, soccer, that the other kids in the neighborhood didn’t even know existed.

As my mother puts it now: “the school nurse was calling us every day.” The bigger kids picked on me physically. They made fun of my name, my heritage, my sport, and our accents (Hogan’s Heroes wasn’t exactly helpful either). I felt like a freak. And I was a white kid. I can only imagine what it would have been like for an Asian kid, or an Indian kid, or an African kid.

I can point to the precise moment my life changed forever. The neighbor boy Stu rang our doorbell, and said: “Hi, I’m Stu, and I’m going to be your best friend.” Stu took me under his wing, showed me what it was like to be a normal American boy, and helped transform a dangerously shy German boy into just another kid in the neighborhood. By the time second grade started, it was effortless. I felt I belonged.

Then in fifth grade, it all fell apart again when my Dad told us we were moving back to Germany. I was absolutely crushed.

Johnny’s friend is exactly the same age I was. I could see the panic in his eyes when he told us he was moving to Poland. He had worked so hard to integrate, and now he was going to be a fish out of water…again. I knew exactly how he felt.

But before he left America, I told him something to give him hope. When I moved in the 70s, the only realistic way to stay in touch was via letters. Letters that often took weeks to arrive. Despite this barrier, I remained friends with my buddy Stu in America because we actually took time to write. In fact, when my family moved back to America (in the early 80s), we picked up right where we left off, and Stu remains one of my best friends to this day.

In this internet age, with e-mail, social networking, cellphones, texting, and skype, it’s easier than ever to stay in touch. So far (it’s been a few months) they’re doing a great job.

But I must admit, as badly as I feel for my own son (the loss of his best friend), I can’t stop thinking about that boy in Poland. His whole world has turned upside down.

I told Johnny that his job is to make sure his world here remains familiar enough that when he returns, it will be like he never left.

Everybody needs a Stu.

It’s a language that can be difficult to pick up. Unlike English, Teenage Boy doesn’t actually use full words or sentences. It’s more or less a series of grunts, groans, sighs, and instantaneous responses. Like English, often these mean different things in different situations.

I recently sat down with someone who speaks Teenage Boy fluently (my soon-to-be 14 year-old son Tommy) and asked him to help me compile a Teenage Boy/English dictionary. Tommy actually grew up speaking English, and with the help of an unusually sharp recall of his former language, he was able to confirm each of my translations with a grunt, groan or sigh.

Teenage Boy: (Rolling eyes)
English: “Mom or Dad is speaking.”

Teenage Boy: “WHAT?”
English: “Go away.”

Teenage Boy: Grunt (in the morning)
English: “Good Morning.”

Teenage Boy: Grunt (in the afternoon or evening)
English: “Go away.”

Teenage Boy: “Fine.” (in a monotone)
English: “I’m literally not giving any thought at all to the question you just asked me.”

Teenage Boy: “Fine.” (sneering tone of voice)
English: “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I’m not giving any thought at all to the question you just asked me.”

Teenage Boy: Smile
English: “I need a ride somewhere.”

Teenage Boy: Door slam
English: “I know you’re right, and that’s why I hate you right now.”

Teenage Boy: “NOW?”
English: “Will this unlawful servitude never end?”

Teenage Boy: “You always say that!”
English: (This is an involuntary instantaneous response to the English word “No.”)

Teenage Boy: “Yes.”
English: (This is an involuntary instantaneous response to the English phrase “Is your homework done?”)

Teenage Boy: “He (or she) is bothering me.”
English: “He (or she) is breathing.”

Teenage Boy: (to Parents) “You’re bothering me.”
English: “I can see you.”

That’s all I’ve actually heard or seen in Teenage Boy, but Tommy is only 14. I’m sure I’ll be adding to this dictionary as he gets older. I’m also working on the reverse translations.

When I asked Tommy to help me with translating Parent into Teenage Boy, he said: “Oh that’s easy. Say something in Parent, and I’ll translate it for you.”

“How are things going at school?” I asked.
“Blah blah blah,” he translated.

Then he smiled.

I think he needs a ride somewhere.

He gets up at 7:30, even though he doesn’t need to be at school until 9.

He makes his own breakfast, gets dressed, makes his lunch, brushes his teeth, and by 8:15 or so, he’s ready to go. He stares at the clock and gives me updates.

“Thirty minutes until it’s time to go, Dad.”

“Thanks, Sean. Keep me updated.”

Every five minutes I get a new update: “Twenty five minutes to go…twenty minutes to go…”

When we reach the last five minutes, he puts on his shoes and his backpack, and stands by the front door, giving me updates every minute.

“Five minutes to go…Four minutes to go…”

If I’m not at the front door by the two minute mark he starts panicking. “C’mon, Dad, it’s only two more minutes. Put on your shoes. Let’s Go! Let’s Go! Let’s Go!”

We walk to school because we only live three blocks away, but he’s not really walking. He’s bouncing. He just can’t wait to get there. The classes line up by the back of the school, and he’s usually ten to fifteen paces ahead of me–nearly sprinting those last few yards.

I check in with him one more time before I leave. “You all set, buddy?”

He waves me off. “Yup, see ya.”

He’s just so excited he can barely contain himself. When I ask him why, he replies with a duh tone of voice: “I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life!”

All six years.

In our school district, kindergarten is in a different school, so now that he’s in first grade, he’s finally in the big school. While many of the first graders are intimidated by that, Sean can maneuver his way around that place with ease. He’s been to every Fun Fair, concert, and Cub Scout meeting for the past six years.The ladies in the office have known him since he was a baby. The teachers all know him (and tell him: “I’ve heard a lot about you, Sean.”). The principal knows him.

And the reasons everyone knows him, his big brothers Tommy & Johnny, are no longer around to steal his thunder.

As far as Sean is concerned, he’s the king now.

Long live the King.

I was dreading this summer.

Last summer was so long and horrible, I thought that time was moving in the wrong direction.

The two summers before that my home was a war zone.

But can I confess something? I had a wonderful time with my boys this summer, and I’m actually sad that it’s coming to an end this week.

I think it’s because I was trying to get a lot of work done the past few summers (I had a book to promote two summers ago, and a new website that launched last summer) and didn’t spend enough quality time with the boys. This summer was different. This year we did it all.

We went to New Orleans for a week, we had a great weekend in Michigan, we went camping in Wisconsin, we went to downtown Chicago, we went to Cubs games (and this year two of the boys, Johnny and Sean, actually had fun), we saw a few good movies, plus I played lots of baseball with Sean in the backyard, took Tommy & Johnny golfing a few times, and we went on a lot of family bike outings.

I also let the boys invite friends over all the time. (That’s something I couldn’t do the past few summers when I was trying to conduct radio interviews.) It’s funny, but the more kids that are over here, the easier it is on me. They tend to watch each other, and keep each other occupied.

How much fun did I have this summer? When my two oldest boys went to summer camp for a week, I actually missed them.

I can’t believe this, but now that I’m finally going to reach that parental nirvana I’ve been anxiously awaiting since my very first day on this job (having all three boys in school all day long), I’m not nearly as excited as I thought I would be.

In fact, I was feeling a little melancholy when we bought the school supplies the other day. How did this happen so fast? Tommy and Johnny are both in middle school this year, and my baby Sean is going into first grade. He’s so proud of himself, I swear he’s walking with a spring in his step.

They’re in a hurry to grow up, and now suddenly I’m in no hurry at all.

I must admit, I didn’t see that coming.

Being a parent of boys means inevitably having to say something that you never believed would need to be said. This is especially true when it’s comes to basic human hygiene.

For instance, who would have thought it would be necessary to add the exclamation point “With Soap!” when telling your kid to wash up, or “With Toothpaste!” when telling him to brush his teeth.

Here’s another one I’m forced to say nearly every day: “Your shirt is not a napkin!”

Every time I say it, my middle boy Johnny looks at me like I have some sort of clairvoyant power.

“How did you know?”

“Magic,” I reply, while pointing to the watermelon and strawberry stains on his shirt.

I’ve actually gotten pretty good at seeing, identifying, and closing hygiene loopholes (”With Shampoo!”, “With Toilet Paper!”, “Wear Underwear!”) in my house.

This week, however, one of my sons took it to a new level. I thought I was unshockable, but let the record show, I have been shocked twice in one week.

I won’t embarrass this boy by mentioning his name, but he did something that nearly caused me to pass out in church last weekend. He was sitting just past my reach so I couldn’t grab him or chastise him while it was happening, but I saw it clear as day.

His finger was digging for gold in his nostril just moments before the priest told the congregation to give the sign of peace (shake hands). This child of mine’s finger went straight from nostril to handshake. The poor unfortunate victim was the woman sitting next to him. I literally leaped across his brothers to grab him before he could infect again, and found myself saying something that I never believed I’d need to say:

“You can’t shake hands with someone after you’ve been picking your nose.”

Sigh.

I thought that was as bad as it was going to get, but yesterday this same child took it up a notch. To tell you the truth, I’m still in shock about this one. We were at Arlington Park enjoying a day at the races. The boys love hanging out there and watching the horses. We don’t even bet, we just enjoy the sunshine and the atmosphere.

As we walked down the stairs to get a better look at the horses coming back after the race, all of us stepped over a pile of spilled food on the ground. All of us, that is, except for one of my sons. He stopped, reached down, and you guessed it…ATE IT! Off the ground!

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I’m not talking about a dog here. I’m talking about a boy that has eclipsed double digits in age. A boy that actually needed to be told…

“Don’t eat garbage off the floor…EVER!”

I’ve really been racking my brain since that happened trying to anticipate what could possibly come next. There must be some way to spot these obvious loopholes before they occur. I’m compiling a list. Here’s what I’ve got so far.

“Don’t lick the electrical outlets!”
“Don’t pour salt into open wounds!”
“Don’t play with that hypodermic needle you found on the street!”
“Don’t eat batteries!”

Am I forgetting anything? Maybe you can help me fill in the potential areas of concern. Remember, apparently nothing is too obvious.

My father was not exactly known for his sense of humor. On the other hand, he did know how to pick his moments.

Let me share a story to illustrate this point. My kids love this story.

In 1976 my family still lived in Germany. My Dad’s parents came to visit us there (they were living in America at the time) and brought along my cousin Robert. The purpose of their trip was to journey back to the town of their birth–a formerly German speaking town in what is now Romania.

Now, in 1976, the Cold War was still in full swing. Romania was a communist country and it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park to visit there. It was especially difficult if you were born there (like my father and his parents) because they assumed you were coming to their country to smuggle something in, or smuggle something out.

To add to the drama, my father worked for the U.S. Department of Defense. We had two different passports; one diplomatic passport that revealed his job, and one ordinary passport that did not. We had just had a bad experience in East Germany earlier that year when Dumbo Rick brought the wrong one (a story for another time).

Believe me when I tell you, our fear of communist countries was grounded in actual experience.

We rented a van so that all eight of us could go in one car, and we drove from our home just outside of Frankfurt. The first night we stopped in Vienna. The second night we stopped in Yugoslavia. That night we watched a soccer game on the only television in the town…in a bar. After every goal, men threw their shot glasses against the wall. That was about as scared as I have ever been.

Have I mentioned I was 13 at the time?

The next morning we got back on the road, and my father told my cousin Robert and I something even scarier: The Romanians considered baseball cards contraband. If we didn’t do a good job of hiding our cards, they would confiscate them and we’d never see them again.

Our eyes were as big as saucers. We had several boxes of cards with us. We had been playing with them in the backseat for the entire trip. Now what? Our car had already been searched going into Yugoslavia. We knew he must have been telling the truth. Where in the world would hide them?

“Dad,” I asked. “Will they put us in jail if they find them?”

“Probably not,” he said.

Probably?

We had the cards under our seats when we arrived at the Yugoslavia-Romania border. I can’t speak for Robert, but I know I was on the verge of tears, panic filling my entire body. We all held our breath as Dad got out the car. This was going to take some fancy talking. Once they saw Dad’s passport, which listed Romania as his country of birth, there was a decent chance that he might be detained and questioned. That would inevitably be followed by a full search of the car, the end of our baseball card collections, and possible jail time in a communist country that barely had running water.

I can still see the vision of Dad walking up to that guard clear as day. He had two cartons of Marlboro cigarettes in one hand, and our passports in the other. He handed both handfuls to the guard, who smiled.

The two men exchanged pleasantries, the guard gave Dad our passports back, and we drove into Romania without being searched.

Robert and I didn’t discover that Dad was joking about the baseball cards until he told the story to his relatives in Romania. He told it again and again at each new house we visited. Oh, they had a good laugh at that one.

Dumb American kids. Why would Romanian guards want baseball cards?

Maybe if they knew that stack contained a mint Hank Aaron card they wouldn’t have been laughing.

I didn’t suspect a thing when I got the first call. It was from my wife’s cell phone.

When I answered I only heard a weird animal noise on the other line. I couldn’t quite make it out. I figured Bridget must have accidentally called and didn’t know it, so I hung up.

She called right back. Same weird noise. I listened closely, trying to figure out what it was. It sounded like a duck or a goose. After saying “Hello” about a thousand times, and getting no response, I hung up again.

She called right back again. Same weird noise. I hung up again.

There were five more calls. One after the other. Same weird noise. It really did sound like a duck on the other line.

I called Bridget at her office to find out if she was distressed or something really bad was happening to her.

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Why?”

“I keep getting calls from your cellphone.”

“Oh good! I lost that at the soccer fields the other day. Did they tell you who they were or where they were calling from?”

I was a little embarrassed to admit it. “Um no. It sounded like a duck on the other line.”

During my call to her office, the cellphone called again.

“There it is again,” I said.

“I’m going to call and shut off the service so it doesn’t cost us a fortune,” she said.

We figured that was the end of it. But no. The next day I got another call. This time it was from the village maintenance staff. It wasn’t from Bridget’s cellphone, it was about the cellphone.

“Did you lose a phone at the soccer field?” the man asked.

“Yes, that’s my wife’s,” I said, relieved.

“Well we got it at the garage here, you can come and pick it up.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Did you guys call this number from the cellphone a bunch of times yesterday?”

“No sir, we didn’t, we just found it this morning” he said. “I tried to call you, but the service was turned off, so I wrote down the ‘home’ number and called from the garage.”

“You said you found it at the soccer fields, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it possible that someone else found it yesterday, called us, and then just left it there?”

“Not likely,” the man said. “There was nobody out there but a bunch of ducks.”

So maybe it is true. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…it really is a duck.

Hopefully this one was Scrooge McDuck, because he owes me money.

Got the first phone call today from summer camp. Tommy has been lost twice already. He and Johnny just got there on Sunday.

Sigh.

This was my NWI Parent story about my summer camp fears.

Keeping my fingers crossed they can make it through three more days.

Sean woke me up at 7 in the morning. He was already wearing his Cubs hat, his Cubs shirt, and his baseball mitt.

“Today’s the day, Dad. We’re going to the game.”

I love the boy’s enthusiasm, although I would have loved it just as much an hour later. He couldn’t help himself. He had been waiting for this day all summer. I take each of the boys to one Cubs game every year, a rare day of one-on-one time with Dad, and this was Sean’s day. (Johnny’s day was earlier this summer, Tommy’s comes in a few weeks.)

We walked into Wrigley Field just as the lineups were being announced, and discovered our first taste of unexpected good luck. It was “Build a Bear” day and they were handing out Cubs teddy bears to the first few thousand kids that arrived. Sean literally got the last one.

“I’m calling it Babe Ruth, Dad,” he said, “Because it’s the greatest bear ever.”

Now, I realize that traveling with a really cute kid (my totally biased opinion) has it’s perks, but today we were in for way more than our share. The second stroke of luck occurred as I was buying our programs. A lady came up to me and asked a strange question.

“Do you have good seats for the game?”

“Um, I guess so,” I said, and was trying to explain where our seats were in the second section behind first base, when she interrupted me.

“Would you like fourth row seats right behind the Cubs dugout?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes. My husband and I have two extra seats because our friends couldn’t make it. I was hoping to give it to someone here with a youngster. We’ll be sitting right next to you.”

Sean’s eyes almost bugged out of his head.

“Dad, maybe I’ll be able to use my mitt!” he said, holding it up.

“Sure, what the heck.”

So, instead of sitting in my usual seats in section 228, we sat in section 15, exactly four rows behind the Cubs dugout. The players in the on-deck circle were so close, it felt like you could reach out and touch them.

“There’s Ryan Theriot!” Sean screamed. He identified all the other players as they came out onto the on-deck circle too, which entertained the people around us to no end. It was obvious this little six year old wasn’t just coming to a baseball game. He was a real fan.

In the fourth inning a Reds player struck out on a pitch in the dirt to end the inning. Cubs catcher Koyie Hill did what he always does when an inning ends with a strikeout. He tossed the ball into the stands behind the dugout to one of the young fans. A teenager in the second row caught it.

He presented the ball to Sean. “I want you to have it,” he said.

“Really?” I asked. “You should keep it. He tossed it to you.”

“No, it’s OK. I’m a little closer to the dugout. I may get another one.”

Sean’s eyes almost bugged out of his head again.

“Dad, look! It has some real Wrigley Field dirt on it.”

He tossed the ball into his mitt a few times to hear it pop. Even I was jealous now. I’ve been going to Wrigley Field for 41 years and I’ve never gotten a single ball. When I told Sean that, he beamed.

The people sitting next to us, the ones that gave us the seats, turned out to be from Lansing, Michigan. We had a wonderful time hanging out with them. They took pictures of Sean and I together. They watched our stuff for us as we walked around the ballpark taking in the sights between innings. And while we were sitting in our seats, we had great conversations about kids (they have two about the ages of my older two), baseball, and life.

Throughout it all, Sean kept piling on the goodies. In addition to his free teddy bear and ball, he was also given a free coloring book by an usher as we walked around. I also bought him a Cubs bear claw and a Cubs bat. Each boy gets $20 to spend as they wish. Sean didn’t want any food or drinks–he wanted the merchandise. He couldn’t even carry all of his booty.

In the bottom of the sixth inning the Cubs pitcher (Randy Wells) was standing in the on-deck circle when Lou Piniella called him back for a pinch hitter. He took off his batting gloves and tossed them into the stands. The teenager that had given up his ball to Sean, caught the gloves. A perfect moment of karma.

And on top of it all, the Cubs won!

When the last out was recorded, Sean looked at me and said: “Dad, this is the best day of my life.”

The couple that gave us the tickets heard him say it, and they smiled. He even thanked them (without parental prompting), which made me very proud of my little boy.

I got their address and I plan to send them free copies of my books as an additional thank you for all they did for us that day. I know it will never repay them fully for what they did, but I need to do something. How do you repay someone for giving your son the best day of his life?

It sounded like such a great idea.

We were camping in Wisconsin, and the campsite was near a river. Among the outings offered by the campground was “tubing down the river.” They really just gave you an inner-tube, dropped you off at a rather slow-moving portion of the river, and said “See you back at camp.” There was no way we could possibly get lost because the river naturally flowed right back to the campground.

I asked the boys if they wanted to try it, and while Tommy said no way, his younger brothers Johnny & Sean both leaped at the idea. Unfortunately, just a few minutes before we climbed into the tubes, just out of my earshot, one of the other boys from the campsite told my boys: “Look out for the snakes. The river is full of ‘em.”

I didn’t hear the kid say it, but I knew something was wrong right away. Johnny & Sean were in their little tubes, but they refused to let their hands or feet touch the water. Neither of these kids are known for being tentative around the water, so it was really throwing me for a loop.

Sean looked particularly disturbed. “I don’t want to do this Dad,” he said.

I turned to look for the truck that had dropped us off, but it was gone.

“Sorry, kid, it’s too late now,” I said. “This is the only way home.”

To stop them in mid-panic, I volunteered to steer for the three of us by holding onto their tubes as we floated. Needless to say, steering three tubes down a flowing river while having only one free hand to paddle, was slightly counterproductive. I just paddled us in circles.

We were at the mercy of the river flow.

Sadly, the river flow didn’t take into account where the hazards were, and there were many; Long branches hanging out over the river, right at head level.

We were ducking and weaving the entire time. Johnny got scratched in the head by a branch. Sean screamed unhelpful directions like “Dad, we’re gonna crash.” And I was jumping off the tube and into the river every hundred yards or so to unattach us from some hazard or another.

I really could have used a hand or two, but the four other hands that were with me weren’t doing a darn thing. I must admit, I got a little irritated with their helplessness. I snapped, and demanded their help. That’s when they told me about the river snakes. Mind you, they didn’t mention it the dozen or so times I had jumped into the water to save them. Only now that they were in trouble. Luckily for them, I didn’t believe a word of it.

“Trust me,” I said. “There aren’t any snakes in this river. I’ve been in the water a million times and I haven’t seen a single one.”

But that’s when I did see something even more terrifying. Something potentially deadlier than a river snake. I looked at my hand to make sure I wasn’t seeing things. Sure enough, there was no doubt about it.

My left hand no longer had a wedding ring.

I must have lost it somewhere in the river.

Now I was just as scared as they were.

“OK boys, we need to talk,” I said. “I seem to have lost my wedding ring.”

“WHAT?!” Johnny screamed. “Mom’s going to kill you.”

“I know. This is where I’m going to need your help. You don’t have to lie for me, but I’m asking you nicely not to tell Mom. She probably won’t notice for a few days, and in that time I may be able to go to the store and get a replacement.”

“It will never work,” Sean said.

“It’s worth a try. Do I have your word?”

Suddenly they weren’t thinking about snakes anymore either. Now they were worried about the life of their dear father. They both agreed.

We floated for another twenty minutes or so, bouncing from one side of the river to the other, overcoming further obstacles, but now we did it silence. All of us were just going through the motions, awaiting my doom.

I was spending every waking moment trying to remember what the heck Bridget had inscribed in the ring. That was going to be an important thing to duplicate, and the only person that knew the answer for sure was the one person I couldn’t ask. Was it our initials? Our wedding date? Our initials and our wedding date? Crap.

I was deep in thought, but I suddenly noticed something green floating nearby. It was about the length of a tree branch, but it wasn’t the right color, and it seemed to be moving slightly differently than a tree branch would. It wasn’t until it was no more than three feet away from Johnny that I got a good look at it.

It was a snake.

I tried to stay as calm as possible so the already spooked boys wouldn’t freak out. I rotated the tubes to move Johnny and Sean away from the snake. Of course, this moved me within inches of it. What the heck, I only had a few minutes left of my life anyway. If it’s gonna bite someone, might as well be me. As soon as I tell Bridget that the ring is gone, she’s going to kill me anyway.

Luckily the snake wasn’t interested in us. He swam toward the river bank as we floated harmlessly past him without incident. The boys didn’t even see the snake, and I sure wasn’t going to mention it.

About five minutes later our voyage was mercifully over.

Bridget and Tommy greeted us at the river bank by the campsite. I was just getting ready to put on a happy face and pretend like nothing was wrong, when Sean screamed from the middle of the river: “Hey Mom, guess what? Dad lost his wedding ring!”

Et tu, Sean?

Looks like this river has more than one river snake.