Father Knows Nothing

Suburban Man will not be returning in 2009. However, a very similar column (OK, the exact same column with a different name) can be found at the NWI Parent blog. It's called Father Knows Nothing, and it's updated every week.

Thanks for following along with Suburban Man, and please continue to check out "Father Knows Nothing."

Your pal,
Rick

Oh Stewardess, I speak Pokemon

By Rick Kaempfer








Remember that scene in airplane when the stewardess can't understand what the two African-American gentlemen are saying because they are using thick slang? June Cleaver taps her on the shoulder to say: "Oh stewardess, I speak jive."

Well, I feel the same way whenever strangers are listening to Sean and Johnny talk to each other in Pokemon. It's a foreign language that no-one above the age of 14 is supposed to understand. And like the reaction June Cleaver (Barbara Billingsley) gets when she speaks jive, I get a few double-takes when I speak Pokemon to the boys in public.

Here's a sample conversation:

Sean: How come you get to be parasect but I'm goldeen?
Johnny: Goldeen has 60HP. That's not bad.
Dad: Johnny, be fair. One's water and one's grass.
Johnny: Then let's do fire.
Sean: I'm Magmortar.
Johnny: OK, then I'm Charizard.
Sean: NO!
Dad: That's fair, Sean. Both of them have over 100HP.
Sean: But...
Dad: Sean, he gave you first choice.
Johnny: Pokebattle!
Sean: Smoke Bomb!
Johnny: Aaaaah. Combustion!
Sean: Aaaaah. Flame Drum!
Johnny: Missed me.
Dad: Johnny! You know you can't do that.
Johnny: What?
Dad: How did it miss you?
Sean: Yeah! That has 80HP!
Johnny: Charizard can use a bursting inferno to deflect.
Dad: You know it's only 50HP. Cmon, now. Play fair.

It's taken me years to figure it out, mind you, but I think I've finally gotten it down. I learned it for the same reason I learned everything else in my house.

To break up fights.

I'm sure all the translators at the State Department learned their languages for the same reason. And while you may laugh at the meaninglessness of my Pokemon knowledge, I'd like you to keep one thing in mind: If kids take over the world, who do you think they'll want to keep around more? You or me?

I always keep an extra Machamp in my pocket, just in case.

It's got 130HP.

17 things I've learned about my wife...

This is my lovely wife, Bridget. Sunday was our 17th anniversary. Even though we dated for three years before we got married, there are quite a few things about her that I couldn't have known when we said "I do" to each other. In honor of those 17 years of on-the-job training, I thought would tell you 17 things I've learned about my bride since our wedding day.

#1: There has never been a more talented baby-entertainer. She could make a fortune touring the country entertaining the 2-and-under crowd.

#2: She is incapable of saying this phrase: "That's good enough."

#3: She has an 80% chance of coming out of a clothing store without a purchase, and when she does buy something, there's an 80% chance she will return it.

#4: She can be very funny off-the-cuff, but is completely unable to tell a story or joke without messing up the punchline.

#5: She secretly wants to be a carpenter.

#6: She has two personalities: Regular Bridget and Party Bridget. Both of them can be a lot of fun, but you won't be able to keep up with one of them. Trust me on this.

#7: When she says the checkbook is balanced, she's not being approximate. If you haven't deposited a check she's given you, she will hunt you down.

#8: Even though she was a cheerleader in high school, she will never ever do one of her old routines again, and no amount of begging will change her mind.

#9: She is a genetically gifted dishwasher-loader. She could fit a mini-van into that thing by twisting and turning it the right way.

#10: Don't wake her up. Just don't do it.

#11: If you like to listen to one radio station, don't let her sit in the front seat of the car with you. If you like to watch more than 30 seconds of a television show, don't let her touch the remote control.

#12: When she gives you her opinion you can rest assured she's telling you what she really thinks. Don't ask if you don't want to know.

#13: She has an unusually high tolerance for physical pain, but a commercial can make her cry.

#14: If she has been somewhere once, she can find it again without directions.

#15: When she uses a certain tone of voice to tell kids what to do, they do it. Period. And not just her own kids. All kids. That tone of voice should be bottled and sold at the store.

#16: She is very imaginative with her verb usage when driving behind someone who doesn't drive well. I'm pretty sure some of her suggestions for fellow drivers aren't physically possible.

#17: She has somehow managed to reverse the aging process. She looks as beautiful today as she did the day I married her.

That was 17 wonderful years ago.

If I could go back in time to my wedding day and talk to that 28-year-old groom nervously sweating through his tuxedo, I know exactly what I would tell him: "Nothing to be nervous about, Rick. This is the best decision of your life."

If Bridget could go back in time to our wedding day and talk to that 24-year-old bride, I know exactly what she would tell her: "Make him get rid of the mullet. It's going to ruin the wedding album forever."

Self Sufficiency

By Rick Kaempfer






Despite the semi-skewed childhood my boys are experiencing because I’m at home raising them instead of my wife (for instance, my six-year-old Sean once asked me if I want to be a mom when I grow up so I can get a job), these kids are turning out remarkably well.

All three of them are good people with good hearts. All three of them have a good sense of humor. And most importantly, all three of them are learning the value of becoming self-sufficient.

That’s been my greatest gift to them, and of course, I’m not giving it to them intentionally. They know that they can’t totally count on me to take care of everything for them, because I’ve blown it so many times.

Since my youngest son Sean is the one I’ve been most instrumental in raising (he was a baby when I got this gig full-time), he is the most self-sufficient. I honestly think that if I were to have a heart attack, he would calmly call 9-1-1 before heading to the school bus stop at the appropriate time.

This is a boy that makes breakfast for his older brothers. I didn’t teach him to do that. He just noticed that I move too slowly in the morning, and filled the void. He has also been getting himself dressed for more than three years. Granted, there are days when we show up somewhere before I notice he’s wearing shoes that are three sizes too big (it only happened once, OK?), and his socks almost never match (which horrifies my mother), but for the most part, I couldn’t get everything done in the morning without Sean.

Some of the other parents in the neighborhood have even noticed how well he seems to manage his own affairs. At soccer practice last week after Sean took charge and organized his teammates, one of the other moms asked me my secret.

“Oh that’s easy,” I answer. “Bad parenting.”

My second son Johnny is now 10 years old. He was in kindergarten when I took over the gig, so he is still a little needier than his little brother. For instance, he still has moments when he forgets that I’m the one at home with him every day instead of his mom. This happens every Halloween when he tells me his idea for a costume.

“I’m going as a knight this year,” he told me the other day.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked.

“I just need a metal chest plate, a metal helmet, a jousting spear, and a mace.”

“Where are we going to buy that?” I asked.

“We can make it, Dad.”

I locked eyes with him and he remembered who he was dealing with.

“Maybe I’ll go as Mario again,” he said. “I’ll go make a paper mustache.”

In addition to making his own costumes every year, Johnny has become a human post-it note for me. When I put him to bed at night, I’m likely to hear something like “Don’t forget tomorrow is viola lessons, Dad. You have to wake me up early.” Or when he comes home from school, I’ll get a reminder like “Dad, I’ve only got an hour to do my homework today because of soccer practice–which starts at 5.”

Right. Thanks.

I’m trying. I really am. But I think it’s safe to say that attention to detail isn’t my strong suit. That’s why I really understand the difficulties that my oldest son Tommy faces. He is just like me–in his own little world–barely aware of his surroundings. Unfortunately for Tommy, he isn’t being raised by strict German parents like I was. He’s being raised by me.

My parents took an almost militaristic approach to my…shall we say…deficiencies. They had to remind me about everything all the time–and I knew I just needed to follow orders to survive. I thought Tommy needed that too, but it was never an option. I just don’t have the organizational chops to pull it off.

On the other hand, our mutual ineptitude led to a real breakthrough the other day. When I got a midterm report from school letting me know that Tommy was getting low grades, we were both shocked. Tommy is a very bright boy. He knows it too. He couldn’t possibly have low grades.

When we looked on the school website, the problem was clear as day. We saw that he had gotten an A or an A+ on every assignment or test he had turned in, but zeros on assignments he didn’t turn in, and that was bringing his grades down. He saw in black and white what needed to be done, and I didn’t need to tell him.

Sometimes it pays to have an inept parent in charge.

The Problem Fixer

By Rick Kaempfer





The other day I broke up yet another fight between my oldest son Tommy (age 12) and my youngest son Sean (age 6). Sean wanted Tommy to play with him, and Tommy rudely rejected him until screaming and/or punching ensued.

But this time things seemed a little bit different. Moments after I broke up the fight, the house was completely quiet. Normally after a fight, Sean would be plotting some sort of diabolical way to annoy or irritate the brother who rejected him. This time he went into the basement without protest.

I was more than a little suspicious when he nonchalantly walked back into the room a few minutes later and asked me some very strange questions.

“Dad, how do you spell open and closed?”
“Dad, where do we keep the sleeping bags?”
“Dad, can I use this Cubs cup?”
“Dad, can I write on this blank piece of paper?”
“Dad, does the top of the toy box come off?”

That last one actually got me off my backside to investigate.

“No!” he said. “Not yet! I’m not ready for you.”

“What are you working on, Sean?”

“I’m building my office,” he said. “You can’t come down right now because my office is…” And then he held up the sign he just made: “CLOSED.”

“Gotcha.”

I admit it. I was dying to see what he was doing, but I also knew it wouldn’t be long before he held up the OPEN sign, and all of my questions would be answered. It was no more than five minutes later.

“Come down to my office, sir,” he said, while pointing to the basement. “I’m open for business.”

When I saw the office he had built, I had to bite my lip. His “desk” was the detached lid of the toy box propped on top of a sleeping bag. On this desk, he had placed a cup of pencils, and a blank piece of paper. He sat down on his “chair” (a giant stuffed dog) and motioned with his hand for me to sit on the customer “chair” (a milk crate).

“Please have a seat, sir.”

“What is your business?” I asked.

“I’m a problem fixer,” he replied. “I can fix any problem at all.”

“That’s great, because I have lots of them.”

He held his hand out. “That will be one dollar please.”

“For each problem?” I asked.

“We have a sale. All problems for $1.”

I gave him the dollar and sat on the milk crate. He looked at me intently, ready and able to handle any problems I may send his way. He folded his hands on the desk.

“What can I do for you?”

“My biggest problem is that my sons fight all the time,” I said, calling the problem fixer’s bluff. “How do I fix that problem, Mr. Problem Fixer.”

He thought about that for a few seconds before replying, “Tell them to stop it. That’s what I tell my kids.”

“And they listen to you?”

“Yup.”

“Mine don’t listen. They still won’t stop.”

“Hmmm,” he said, grabbing the blank piece of paper from the top of his desk. He pretended to peruse it. “Let me check what the charts say. Oh! I see. It says here that you should give them a dollar.”

“If I give them a dollar, they’ll stop fighting?”

“Says so right on this chart,” he said.

“Thanks, Mr. Problem Fixer. I’ll keep that in mind.” With that, I got up to leave the “office.”

“Wait! You still haven’t asked about your biggest problem.”

I sat right back down on the milk crate. “OK, I’ll bite. What is my biggest problem.”

“Getting Tommy up in the morning.”

I raised my eyebrow at the troublemaker. “How do I fix that problem, Mr. Problem Fixer?”

“Give me a dollar and I’ll wake him up for you every single morning,” he said, an evil grin forming on his face.

“That’s a very generous offer,” I said, trying not to grin back. “You’d really do that for me?”

“I promise that he’ll hop right out of bed.”

Yeah, I bet he will. His big brothers don’t know it yet, but it won’t be long before they don’t stand a chance against this boy.

Second Thoughts

By Rick Kaempfer







It's been a rough few weeks for me; a time of deep, dark contemplation. You see, I've spent the last year of my life dedicating myself to a website about the Cubs (www.justonebadcentury.com).

It was just a lark at first; a chance to poke fun at the team that constantly breaks my heart. But somewhere along the line I actually started believing the Cubs were going to win it all this year...for the first time in my life.

Worst of all, I convinced my three sons, particularly my six-year-old Sean. He became so obsessed, by the end of the season he was making me look like a casual fan.

He named his teddy bear "Kosuke." He slept with his Cubs hat on. He learned the batting stances of every player. He carried around their baseball cards in his pocket--arranged in order of most favorite to least favorite. He and I watched nearly every game this season. We recreated games in the backyard, and played catch at the school bus stop every morning. We were such a die-hard Cubs house that even my wife (the baseball agnostic) started caring whether or not they won or lost.

Until this past week, I thought it was a beautiful bonding experience. Now, I feel like turning myself in to DCFS.

I got the first inkling of what I had done to my boys in the Wrigley Field restroom after they lost Game 2. A young man came bounding into the restroom with youthful enthusiasm despite the horrific display we had all just witnessed to exclaim: "It's alright, guys! We'll win 2 in LA and bring it back home!"

I was standing next to a 70-something year old man, who leaned over and said to the youngster..."Hey Kid, how old are you?"

He replied "I'm 25."

The old man simply sighed, looked knowingly in my sad eyes, and walked out the door. We were both thinking the same thing. "He'll learn eventually."

Within moments of feeling sorry for that youngster, however, I realized that my boys were going to react the same way. They were sure this was the year, and their belief was not going to be shaken by this gruesome collapse. That's when I started feeling reeeeeeeally guilty.

The next morning Sean proved my point. He gave me a comforting hug and said "Don't worry, Dad. It's only two losses so far. We'll get 'em in LA."

I swear I almost cried when he said that. Bridget and I met eyes, and just like the old man and I had done in the restroom the night before, we spoke to each other without speaking. We were both thinking about an incident that took place at Wrigley Field in 1996 when my oldest boy Tommy was a baby.

An older lady came up to me and cooed at the adorable baby in my arms. She asked me: "So, are you going to make him a Cubs fan too?"

"Yes I am," I said proudly.

"That's child abuse," she replied, and walked away.

I didn't think so then, but if I were put under oath today, I would have to say: "Guilty as charged, your honor."

Wake Up Call

By Rick Kaempfer



My son Tommy (age 12) and I have always had a Wile E. Coyote/Roadrunner relationship in the morning.

I tried absolutely everything to wake him up for school, but instead of actually accomplishing this impossible feat, I fell off a cliff, got hit in the head with an anvil, and had a stick of dynamite blow up in my face. The entire Acme catalog didn’t help rouse him at all. I was a complete and utter wake up failure…until last week.

That’s when I just gave up.

Instead of subjecting him to the tickling machine (wow, does he hate that), the karaoke dad (I’ve performed entire Broadway shows), or the parade of lights (my personal favorite), I simply walked into his bedroom, and announced that it was time to get up. While he was grumbling and moaning, I added: “This is your only warning. If you don’t get up soon, you’ll miss your bus, and you’ll have to figure out another way to get to school. I’m counting on you to make the right choice.”

Of course, I suspected he would make the wrong choice.

I was right. Twenty minutes passed. Then thirty minutes. Finally, about ten minutes before the bus was scheduled to arrive, Tommy finally made it to the breakfast table.

“You have ten minutes until the bus gets here,” I said.

“WHAT??” he squealed.

I was totally unemotional about it. “Yup, sorry. You’ve still got to get eat breakfast, get dressed, make your lunch, and brush your teeth. Good luck with that.”

That led to a flurry of flailing arms and legs, loud thumping up and down the stairs, and frenzied questions about the time: “How many more minutes?”

“Four minutes.”

“AAAAAAARRRGGGH!”

Cabinets slammed as he prepared lunch. Water splashed as he brushed his teeth. His shoes were barely on his feet when he barreled through the front door on the way to the bus stop…just in time.

The next morning when I told him to make the right choice, he made it twenty minutes earlier.

This morning he came down only thirty seconds after I opened the shades.

Memo to Wile E. Coyote: You’ve just been trying too hard.