Suburban Man

Father Knows Nothing

2008-12-29T13:07:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-24T18:52:00.001-08:00

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...

2008-11-17T20:41:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-10T21:25:00.001-08:00

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

2008-10-27T21:40:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-13T19:53:00.001-07:00

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

2008-10-06T20:51:00.001-07:00

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.

Welcome to Broadcasting, kid

2008-09-15T19:30:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

About three weeks ago I received a phone call from a friend of mine with an interesting proposition. My friend’s mother had just been filmed for an upcoming ESPN special about the Cubs. The show (and an accompanying article in ESPN Magazine) was to feature Cubs fans from every decade of their losing century. My friend’s mother was chosen to be the representative for Cubs fans in their 90s.

While they were filming her, one of the writers of the project mentioned that they were having a difficult time finding a kid under ten years old who was articulate, comfortable in front of the camera, and devoted to the Cubs. My friend immediately thought of my son, Sean, who is all of those things. Would he be interested in representing Cubs fans under ten?

I asked Sean, and he raised his hands in the air. He screamed “YEAH!!!”

That got the ball rolling. The writer of the piece called me up and interviewed me about Sean. Was he really a die-hard Cubs fan? I asked Sean to name some of the players, and he effortlessly named half the team off the top of his head.

“But I can only do three of their batting stances,” Sean confessed.

“I think we have our boy,” the writer said.

He sent me the script that all of the fans were going to recite. The plan was to cut from one fan to another in a montage. After each fan read the script, they were going to be interviewed about their love of the team, their feelings about the hundred years since the last championship, and their chances for this year.

Sean made me practice the script with him several times a day for the next week. He had it down pat. He looked right at the camera, he smiled, and he pronounced everything perfectly. We did a few practice interviews, and Sean was charming, cute, enthusiastic and hilarious.

The writer called me to set up a filming time and location. They had it down to two choices: the local baseball field, or our backyard “field” where Sean plays every day. He said he would call me up the next day and make the final arrangements.

Sean was totally excited, and I must admit, so was I. I knew the names of the other people chosen to represent the other decades, and just being associated with this group would be something Sean would cherish for the rest of his life (once he realized who these people were–many of them were nationally known celebrities).

Then I got the call.

“Hate to be the bearer of bad news,” the writer told me, “but we found out yesterday that there’s a seven year old kid named Wrigley Field–and we’re going with him instead. Really sorry about that.”

I was disappointed, but mainly because I knew this news would crush Sean. I thought about telling him the lessons I learned during my twenty year broadcasting career, but I knew he wouldn’t understand any of that. This was just pure disappointment, and it couldn’t be dressed up as anything else or explained away with detached broadcasting industry logic.

I approached the subject with him as gingerly as possible. As I began to tell him that he wasn’t going to be used in the special after all, his eyes welled up. “But Dad, I knew the words. I knew the players…”

“I know, buddy,” I said as I comforted him with a hug, “but they found another boy that they want to use instead. They only picked him because his name is Wrigley Field.”

He looked up at me. “That’s his name?”

“Yup.”

He broke into a big grin. “That’s the coolest name ever.”

And just like that (snap), he was over it. It must be great to be 5.

(Postscript: The show aired on Sunday, and just for the record, little Wrigley Field did a very nice job.)

Wait til your father gets home

2008-09-08T21:18:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Because my dad died twenty years ago and none of my children ever met him, they ask about him a lot.

At first I told them all the great things about him; the obstacles he overcame, the way he genuinely cared about everyone, and the respect he engendered among his peers. But recently I've been completing the picture a little more, and I'm feeling a little guilty about it.

You see, I've been using Dad to scare them straight.

Perhaps you do the same thing. Here's how it works: When the children are misbehaving and my "nice" way of getting them in line is ineffective, it's time to trot out the punishment techniques of my parents. Not use those techniques, just remind them what they were.

It's indisputable that the techniques commonly used a generation ago were harsher than those considered acceptable today. When my father came home from work, my mother would greet him at the door with a laundry list of our offenses along with the punishment she expected him to enforce ("Ricky told his sister to drink toilet water, so he gets five spankings.") He would exhale, take off his hat and tie, and joylessly take care of business before pouring himself a cocktail.

He knew his role as the father. He was the bogeyman on the other end of the "wait 'til your father gets home" threat. If he wasn't dispensing spankings, he was coming up with creative punishments to deal with the really serious stuff. Usually that involved being "grounded", or writing "I will not talk back to my mother" a thousand times, but sometimes it was much worse.

I've taken a slightly different approach with my own kids. I don't spank them because I just don't see the point. In our house the biggest problem is fighting--and somehow hitting them doesn't exactly make the point I'm trying to make (fighting doesn't solve anything). On the other hand, I noticed that when I muttered "maybe my dad's way of doing this was right," they immediately snapped to it.

After I noticed that was working, I began to share more and more stories of Dad's punishment techniques. Each story added to his legend. Even his non-corporal punishments struck fear in their little pampered hearts.

And I kind of like that.

I feel bad for using Dad this way, but if he's watching from heaven, he knows why I'm doing it. After all, the stories he told me (and my siblings) about his own father giving him "the belt" or making him "pick out a stick to be beaten with" were far scarier than anything he actually did to us.

And I'm sure his father did the same thing. And his father before that. And the generation before that took it to another level with those Grimm's Fairy Tales.

"You think I'm bad? Let me tell you a story about a boy and girl named Hansel & Gretel. They were left out in the woods to die by their parents, and you know what happened to them there? They met a cannibal witch who tried to eat them."

Think any of those early 19th century kids misbehaved after hearing one of those stories?

Anticipation

2008-09-01T21:13:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Back to school.

I started dreaming about this day on the second day of summer vacation. The first day it was kind of nice to have all three boys at home with me for the entire day.

The second day, not so much.

That’s when the “back to school” dreams started for me. It happened nearly every day. I would drift off into a peaceful daydream about how it used to be. Ah, six hours of no kids in the house. Ah, six hours of blissful silence so I can get some work done. Ah, six hours of . . .

That’s as far as the daydream would go. At that point I would get interrupted by some sort of squeal, scream, crash or wail. “Whoever made that noise better start running,” I would say. “Or it’s hammer time.”

My oldest boy, the preteen, would look at my hand, defiantly unafraid. “You don’t have a hammer.”

“Not yet,” I’d threaten.

“What if you did have a hammer?”

Little did he know I had been waiting for someone to ask me that question since 1968. “If I had a hammer,” I answered, “I’d hammer in the morning. I’d hammer in the evening, all over this land. I’d hammer out justice. I’d hammer out freedom. I’d hammer out love between your brother and your other brother . . . all over this land.”

He never asked again.

But as much as I was looking forward to the first day of school, I began to notice in the middle of summer that there was one person in my house looking forward to it even more than me: my five-year-old son, Sean. This year all the “kids’ stuff” of preschool would be done forever. This year he would be going to real school (kindergarten!), and he honestly couldn’t wait. The excitement and anticipation were too much for him to handle.

I got the same question every day: “How many days until school starts?”

“Why are you so excited about school?” I asked him.

He looked at me like that was the dumbest question of all time. “Because I want to learn,” he said. The “duh” in his eyes added an exclamation point.

Wow. A child that actually can’t wait to learn! I was very proud of him. I’m not a big kid-bragger, but I couldn’t help myself. I began to tell everyone I knew about my eager-to-learn child.

People would ask him a question like, “What do you want to learn?” and he would up the ante by being even more prototypically scholarly: “I want to learn how to read. It’s my dream.” (He really said that.)

I was really beginning to puff out my chest until someone dug a little deeper into Sean’s desire to read. “After you learn how to read, what will you read first?” one aunt asked him.

That was the magic question. His face lit up with excitement. “The video game instructions!” he screamed.

Sigh.

Oh, well. At least he’s actually excited about school. We still have that in common.

The Most Ridiculous Fight Ever

2008-08-25T19:22:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I had to transcribe the "conversation" leading up to the most ridiculous fight of the summer. This will give you a small glimpse into what my summer has been like. The participants, as always, are Sean (age 5) and Johnny (age 10). They have just been told to get in the car because it's time for swimming lessons. They are both standing by the back door, inches away from the electronic garage door opener. I'm in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I can hear their whole conversation but I can't intervene because my mouth is full of toothpaste.

Johnny: Sean, hit the button for the garage door.

Sean: No.

Johnny: Just hit it.

Sean: You're standing right next to the button.

Johnny: So are you.

Sean: I'm not going to do it. You do it.

Johnny: JUST DO IT, Sean!

Sean: If you want it open, you hit the button. I'm waiting outside.

Johnny: You won't be able to get in the garage if you don't hit the button. I'm not doing it.

Sean: Fine.

Johnny: Sean, you better not go outside without opening that...

(Sfx: Back door opens, Sean exits)

Johnny: That's it, mister!

(Sfx: Back door opens, Johnny exits)

Johnny: Get back inside and open that garage door now, or you'll be sorry.

Sean: You're not the boss of me.

Johnny: Oh yeah?

Sean: Hey! Give me my towel back!

Johnny: Not until you open that garage door!

Sean: Fine. Keep the towel. Dad will make you give it back to...OW! That hurt.

Johnny: You deserve that for...OW! Hey! Get back here you little brat.

Sean: Dad, help! Dad, help! Johnny's trying to kill me!

It's only two more days until school starts. Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock.

Hats

2008-08-18T21:59:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

My son Johnny loves hats. Just loves ‘em. He probably has two dozen different hats in his closet of all different shapes and sizes.

He wears them in the spring, summer, winter and fall. He wears them in the morning, afternoon, evening and night. But there are two places he’s not allowed to wear a hat, and he is having a hard time dealing with it because he doesn’t understand the reasons and no-one can explain it to him. He can’t wear a hat at school and he can’t wear a hat at the dinner table.

He asked his teacher why he wasn’t allowed to wear his Cubs hat at school and she told him that it’s just a school rule. When he asked why it was a rule, she didn’t really have an answer.

“It just is.”

At home I let him wear the hat inside the house, but when it’s time for dinner, I make him take it off. This is something my mother and father always cracked down on, and I just do it out of reflex. When he asked me why he couldn’t wear his hat at the dinner table, I told him it was considered rude. When he asked why it was considered rude, I didn’t really have an answer.

“It just is.”

So, let me ask this question to my fellow parents. Why is it considered rude to wear a hat at the dinner table? Does it really do any harm? Is there a historical reason for this rule that no longer applies?

I know that some people will always be offended if he wears a hat at the table (like my mom), but I must confess that it really doesn’t bother me. To be honest, I never really understood this rule. Should I keep enforcing a seemingly meaningless etiquette rule without even knowing why?

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Extending your life

2008-08-12T10:35:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I turned 45 years old a few weeks ago. My mom and sister took me out to dinner that night, and between the salad and the steak, I had an epiphany.

My mom said: “Isn’t time moving too fast?”

Now, normally I would have agreed with her. But she happened to ask me this question in the middle of the longest summer of my life. That’s when it hit me. I may have stumbled onto the secret of living a long life. Life can’t possibly just pass you by when it seems like it’s taking forever. This summer, my boys have helped me live an extra few months by making the time tick off the clock at an excruciating pace. If I can figure out a way to do this all the time, I can live forever.

So, I started brainstorming ideas to help extend my life after school starts up in the fall. Feel free to use any of these ideas yourself. I’m happy to share. We can all live forever together.

1) Volunteer to take kids to pre-school birthday parties
You don’t have say another word. Father Time will take care of the rest. Don’t worry if the first few minutes of the party go by quickly–the kids are cute for about five minutes or so. After that, time starts to crawl. The more screaming kids, the better. The more “that’s mine” yelps, the slower the earth rotates. By the time the party is over, you will already have lived longer than your father.

2) Ask every guy you meet to tell you more about his job
Then get specific. Ask about paperwork: “What sort of information do they ask for in the requisition forms these days?” Or, ask about specific petty co-worker squabbles: “So, what’s the status of Ralph’s stapler. Any sign of it yet? I bet if you open Doris’ desk…” Better yet, offer advice on how to deal with issues at work: “You know how I would reorganize your department if I were you?” Any of those office discussions will actually make the clock start moving backwards. Remember, God could have created three universes in the time it takes a typical worker to explain a new office voice-mail system.

3) Go to weddings
Oh, not just any weddings. Family weddings don’t count. Weddings of close friends don’t count either. Any other wedding, however, will do. It’s a little known fact that Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel between the “cutting of the cake” and the “father-daughter dance” at his mother’s best friend’s daughter’s wedding.

4) Talk to three-year-old children on the phone
That little three-year-old voice is so cute…for one second. Then, you’re liable to get a play-by-play of the paint drying. “And um…my shirt is green…and um…squirrel!…” Don’t set the phone down on your end either. That’s cheating. You must simply endure. Every time you feel yourself about to say “Can you put mommy on the phone, honey,” ask another question about the child’s wardrobe or better yet, Dora the Explorer.

There are four free ones. Got any other ideas?

An Old Soul

2008-08-04T21:32:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

My middle son Johnny is 10 years old, but he speaks about life like someone who has seen it all. He's just wired that way--he's always been an old soul.

The day he turned 5, as I put him to bed, he muttered: "I never thought this day would come."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Just yesterday I was four," he said. "And now..." He was getting choked up, just thinking about the implications. "And now I can't play at the mall playground anymore. The sign says 'For kids under 5."

He had that "my life is passing me by" look in his eyes.

When his younger brother Sean started pre-school, I overheard Johnny counseling him in their room one night.

"These are the best years of your life," he told him. "It's all playing all the time in pre-school. Tons of toys, and nothing but playing. Once you get to kindergarten, the fun ends."

Again, he was totally serious.

The other day we were at the doctor's office, and the doctor asked Johnny how old he was. He answered: "I'm three years away from being a teenager."

The doctor laughed and said "I guess you're really looking forward to it."

"No," he said sadly. "It's going to be here before you know it. This decade has gone by like this."

And he snapped his fingers.

Did I mention he was 10?

Pink Eye

2008-07-28T20:47:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I totally made the wrong call.

I thought Sean was walking around the house with pink eyes because of constant exposure to chlorine. After all, he's been going to the swimming pool nearly every day. When he woke up with crusty eyes, however, I knew I had goofed. I took him to the doctor, just to make sure, and the doc confirmed the diagnosis.

"It's pinkeye," he said. "Wash all of his sheets and pillowcases and clean off anything he might have touched."

"Anything?" I asked.

"Anything," he said. "Pink Eye is HIGHLY contagious."

That's when I knew we were in trouble. Sean is a walking talking germ spore, floating from room to room. The average time he spends in any one place is 1.4 seconds. I'm not even sure if his feet touch the ground as he moves, but his hands definitely make contact with everything in his path.

Everything.

He's also very touchy-feely with his older brothers; hugging, touching, petting, (and lately) punching and kicking them whenever and wherever he can. He follows them around like a homing device, chanting the same three words ("Play with me") until he wears them down.

Bridget tried to clean everything anyway. With Bridget on the case (she's a much more thorough cleaner than I am), we had a chance to avoid the pass-it-back-and-forth nature of the pink eye beast. We weren't kidding ourselves...the odds were slim...but it was our only hope. She even spent hours meticulously wiping off every single Lego piece with disinfectant wipes.

For three days we thought we had escaped. Sean religiously took his drops and his pink eyes cleared up. All of us washed our hands a thousand times a day. At dinner that third night I even said a little thank you prayer to the Big Guy for helping us avoid a full-fledged outbreak.

But the next morning when Johnny came to the breakfast table, the crusty yellow goop around his eyes greeted us with a hearty "Good Morning!"

And the cleaning cycle began all over again.

More Evidence of Global Warming

2008-07-14T21:21:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I should preface this by saying I'm not a scientist.

I don't even know a scientist.

On the other hand, I'm living with proof that global warming is real, and since I don't know any scientists personally, I thought maybe one of you could send this post along to a scientist you know. I'm sure they can always use another bullet in their "global warming is real" gun.

So here is the proof. Ready?

Today is only the 15th of July and this summer has already been 7000 weeks long. That's right, it was 7000 weeks ago when the school year ended for all three of my children. At this pace, they won't be going back to school again until I'm elderly enough to be placed in a home.

Take me now.

Please.

I mean it.

You can tell it's an Olympic year because my boys have been training for the brawling events ever since we got back from vacation. (See my earlier post about our perfect vacation--I knew it was too good to be true). In the 6998 weeks since we returned (my calendar actually only counts this as 14 days), we've had two black eyes and two bloody noses, although knock on wood, we still haven't had to make a trip to the emergency room yet.

If for some reason my boys discover they aren't in the same league as some of the other great brawling brother competitors from around the world (my wife says the Irish are the early favorites--she can say that, she's Irish), they've already decided that the Whining/Complaining Gold medal is within their grasp. I'm not just being one of those stage-parents when I say that all three of my boys are truly gifted in this event. They don't just get by on sheer talent. They work hard at it.

I hear some of their training exercises now.

Aaahh.

Summer.

Only 7000 more weeks to go.

Scientists are right. We need to find a solution to this Global Warming problem, and fast.

Vacation Surprise

2008-06-30T21:55:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

We just got back from vacation, and I’m still in shock.

We rented a condo on the beach in Hilton Head, and invited my mother, my sister, and my brother’s family (including his two boys, ages 8 & 5) to join us.

Let me pinpoint the possible areas of conflict…

*We had five boys under the age of 13 sleeping in the same room.

*We had two daughter-in-laws, a daughter, and a German mother all “equally in charge” of making the food for the week.

*We only had two bathrooms.

*At least four family members have no business sitting in the sun because their skin is virtually translucent…and this was a beach vacation.

You’ll never guess what happened. Would you believe it went off without a hitch?

I’m still in shock. The boys played together so nicely I checked their temperatures to make sure they weren’t sick. They played in the ocean for hours at a time (with minimal fighting), ate what they were supposed to eat (with minimal complaining), and more or less went to bed when they were supposed to go to bed (with minimal hassles).

The women didn’t get into a single fight about what groceries to buy and what to make for dinner. They worked together so nicely I checked their temperatures to make sure they weren’t sick. The German mother was so relaxed and happy that no more than a half-dozen “I told you so’s” flopped out, and no one snapped when they did.

We only had one “incident” with the two bathrooms…and this was only because I allowed all five boys to play on their Nintendo DS games at the same time for a few hours. I know, I know. It was a moment of weakness on my part. They had been so good I thought they deserved a reward. I wasn’t considering that all of them would “hold it” the entire time they were playing, and then need to release the hold at the same time. (Although the hopping in the hallway while they waited their turns was pretty amusing)

We somehow even managed to avoid sunburn the entire week, despite spending untold hours at the beach. Even my oldest and youngest boys Tommy and Sean (who take after their Irish mother) didn’t burn. The 50 SPF suntan lotion worked. They even got a little color. I’ve upgraded them from “ivory” to “Navajo White”.

How well did this vacation go? Tommy (who is a pre-teen in every sense of the word now) actually said these three words in a row…. “This is fun.”

That’s the upside. It was our best vacation ever. The downside is that I don’t have any amusing stories of family conflict to share.

I hope you’ll forgive me this one time.

Guest Columnist: Bridget Kaempfer

2008-06-16T21:06:00.001-07:00

Today is my lovely wife's birthday. As a tribute to her, I'm re-running a guest blogging piece she did for me a few years ago. Happy birthday, Bridget!

Give Me Math Any Day
by Bridget Kaempfer

I am NOT a writer. From grade school to college, every writing project assigned to me turned me into the Queen of Procrastination. I assume most everyone is like that at some point in their lives. Probably some of you were still printing (or typing) your final paper for English five minutes before class started like I did. But I even did it in the fourth grade. There was nothing I hated more than a blank piece of notebook paper and being told to “use my imagination.”

However, I AM a reader. I read everything as a kid. My sisters and I would go to the library every Saturday and each of us would check out fourteen books (the limit on our cards), trade them back and forth, and do it all over again the following week. I don’t have time to read as much as I used to, but I still read quite a bit.

Much of what I read these days is the product of my husband’s hard work. Who would have known that he would provide an endless supply of new reading material right in my own home? That I would be asked on a regular basis to give a critique (which ultimately will be ignored) or check for grammatical errors in a new article? Or that some personal details of my life would be twisted out of proportion and posted on the web for the world to read?

Most of the time, I find it amusing. I never knew my family’s life could be so funny... it certainly doesn’t seem funny as its happening. I guess it’s a good thing that I can read about it later and laugh. And of course, I can claim that the really embarrassing stories didn’t really happen (he writes fiction for goodness sake...)

It’s also interesting to see a seemingly mundane event turned into something special with the power of words. Like many working parents, my busy schedule makes it nearly impossible to be as involved as I’d like, and sometimes I feel like I miss out. But I’m lucky. I get a running commentary of what is going on in my house at any given time. Whether it’s learning how to ride a bike for the first time, reaching a new level on a video game or a designing new train track configuration, I can count on the highlights of my family life being recorded so I can go back and see what I missed. It’s like my own personal TiVo (with the added bonus of being able to see humor in a trying situation after the fact, as opposed to living through it myself and killing somebody).

But I can’t do that. I’m not a writer.

“What do you want me to write?” I ask.
“Anything you want,” he says.
“What do you mean, anything? I can’t write – nobody wants to read anything I write.”
“Yes, they do,” he says. "It’ll be fine. Write whatever you want. Use this as a chance to vent at me.”

He may as well have said “use your imagination.”

Besides, I prefer to do my venting verbally. In person. At the top of my lungs.

So here I am, with the proverbial blank piece of paper and an assignment I don’t really want to do. Which is why I waited until the last minute to do this. And once it was done, I didn't tell him for three days so he would sweat about being able to post his blog on time.

After all, I am the Queen of Procrastination. I have to protect my reputation.

Fight Board

2008-06-09T21:52:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

The only sure things in life are supposedly death and taxes, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s at least one more sure thing if you’re the parent of boys, especially during summer vacation.

Fights. Lots and lots and lots of fights.

We have a particularly combustible mixture in our house. The oldest brother Tommy doesn't want to play with either of his little brothers. This distresses the middle brother Johnny who idolizes Tommy, but can't stand the youngest brother Sean. And Sean would kill for a little attention from either of his brothers. It's literally impossible to keep all three of them happy.

In addition, Tommy has a razor sharp tongue, Johnny has a hair trigger temper and likes to talk with his fists, and Sean LOVES stirring up trouble, because hey—bad attention is better than no attention.

The other day I actually wrote down a few comments that led to fights. Mind you, this was all during one breakfast...
=Why does he get the green bowl?
=He’s looking at me
=Tell him to stop humming
=He called me stupidhead.
=I am not purple!
=He bit my butt!
=Batman cannot fly!

Each of these comments would have ended in fisticuffs if I wasn't physically standing between them to break it up.

With "summer togetherness" season upon us, I know it's only going to get worse, so I’m doing everything I can to avoid it. I signed them up for just about every activity under the sun, from summer school classes to day camps to swimming lessons.

And of course, I'm bringing back the Fight Board.

I haven’t had it officially trademarked yet, but the Fight Board was created by yours truly in a fit of inspiration during an all-out brawl a few summers ago. The fight board is non-judgmental. All it does is keep a running tally of the number of fights throughout the summer. It doesn’t matter who started it, what caused it, or whose fault it is. A fight is a fight—and a red tally goes on the board. If they can go an entire summer with less than 100 fights, they each earn a new toy of their choosing.

I know that sounds like a lot of fights, but it's really only a little more than one fight a day. When your oldest boy is twelve and your youngest is five; that's a nearly unattainable goal.

Still, the Fight Board is a "carrot and stick" approach. A carrot must be offered. If they so choose, the carrot is there waiting for them on the double digit side of the 100 fight mark. On the other hand, the real effectiveness of the fight board comes with the stick portion of the program, which kicks in with the 101st fight. Every fight over 100 results in the loss of a toy...for all three of the boys.

Does it work?

The first summer they blew it by August 1st. I think deep in their hearts they didn’t believe I would really take away toys, so they weren't too scared when they hit triple digits. They found out they were sorely mistaken, however, when they had their 101st fight of the summer. I still remember the disbelieving looks on their faces when I started a collection of Star Wars fighter jets in my room. I had nine of them in my closet in the first two days.

By August 3rd, the fights stopped. Totally. They didn’t fight again for the rest of the summer.

Seriously.

The idea of the fight board was to encourage them to settle the fights themselves. If I walked into a room and heard a fight about to start, all I had to say was: "Is this going on the fight board?" Instead of hearing who was to blame (remember the fight board doesn't care), I would get the sound that I love more than anything else in the world.

Silence.

I know all the parenting books suggest using positive reinforcement, but when given the option of the carrot or the stick, my boys will choose the stick every single time. They made a half-hearted effort to earn a new toy, but boy oh boy, they really got their act together when the toys started disappearing.

All three of them magically discovered how to get along overnight. When Johnny started to blow, Tommy helped calm him down. When Sean started screeching because his brothers were ignoring him, Johnny stepped in to give him just enough attention to avoid the meltdown. When Tommy started to lose it, the other two gave him his much needed space.

It was a miracle; a miracle that goes by the soon to be trademarked name of "The Fight Board." The groans I hear when I tack it up on the kitchen bulletin board every summer are just a bonus.

This article originally appeared in NWI Parent Magazine.

Bad Dad

2008-06-02T21:01:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I think this job is just too big for me.

The other day I had a few more things on my plate than usual, and my inept multi-tasking abilities once again failed me. Before the day was over, I had sent one son to school without lunch, brought another son to a soccer game at the wrong time, sent my youngest son to school with pants that wouldn’t stay up, and forgot to make dinner.

It was supposed to be a special day. Sean was graduating from pre-school. This was something I had screwed up in the past with the other boys, and I was determined not to forget anything important. This time I remembered to charge the video camera battery. This time I remembered to get a gift for the preschool teacher. This time I remembered to find his dress shoes, iron his nice shirt, clip on his favorite tie, and dress him up appropriately.

I succeeded in all of those things, which honestly, would ordinarily be a pretty good day for me. Unfortunately, there was one thing I didn’t remember. We were in a hurry while I was getting him dressed, and although I tucked in his shirt and helped him close his pants, I somehow didn’t notice that his pants were too big. Waaay to big. I did notice it eventually…but not until he was walking up to the stage to get his diploma.

Want to see a video of a little boy holding his pants up with one hand while the preschool teacher hands him a diploma with the other hand? The battery was charged so the video came out perfectly. He’s not hard to spot. He’s the only one not giving his parents a smiling wave from the stage. He’s the one screaming: “The girls can see my underpants!”

It was also a special day for my middle son Johnny. His school does something called “special visitor’s day.” The kids each get to pick one person to visit them during the day, and that person can bring in a special lunch. He picked me.

Unlike the previous four years, I was proud of myself for remembering not to pack a lunch for Johnny. In the past, while the other kids were eating a special lunch like McDonald’s, Johnny was forced to look at his soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sigh. He begged me to get him Burger King instead this year, and I actually remembered.

Again, ordinarily, that would be a pretty good day for me. But while we were having our nice little picnic Burger King lunch on the school playground, he asked me, “So what did you pack Tommy for lunch today?”

Oh no. I always made their lunches at the same time every morning. I remembered not to make Johnny’s lunch, but for some reason, my meager multi-tasking brain couldn’t comprehend that I still had to make a lunch for his brother.

I looked at my watch. Tommy’s lunch was already over. I looked at my cellphone (which I had remembered to turn off during the preschool graduation ceremony), and saw that there were several voicemail messages waiting for me. I didn’t even need to listen to them to figure who they were from.

Crap.

Feeling like the worst parent ever, I finished up “special visitor day,” went home, and looked at the calendar. What else am I forgetting? Aha! I had written “makeup soccer game” in pencil, but hadn’t bothered to write down the time. Hmmm. Did the coach say 5 or 6?

Now you would think that a person who had already made two critical errors would have been extra careful at this point to make sure he didn’t make another mistake. Not this dad. No sir. I was pretty sure the coach said 6 because I remembered thinking at the time; “When am I going to make dinner?”

Wrong again.

We almost missed the whole game. Oh, and to add a touch of irony, I never solved the dinner dilemma in my mind. I was so thrown off by the entire day that I completely forgot to make dinner at all. This time I was rescued by my wife.

When the four of us returned from Johnny’s soccer game, she said: “Hey, I got home early and saw you hadn’t made dinner yet, so I made it. Hope you don’t mind.”

Mind?

Nope. Don’t have one.

Take Me Out to the T-Ball Game

2008-05-26T20:11:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Those of you who know me well, know what a huge baseball fan I am. I'm the editor-in-chief of a website dedicated to my favorite baseball team, the Cubs (Just One Bad Century), and I've wasted countless hours of my life following that team.

I must admit, when Bridget and I had three boys, I envisioned that I would spend most of my time playing and watching baseball with them. It hasn't exactly turned out the way I pictured it. My oldest son Tommy is more into music and technology and doesn't like sports at all. My middle son Johnny is more into soccer and comic books.

I haven't pushed either of them to get into baseball. We play it a little in the backyard, but it's clearly not their favorite sport. That's always been OK with me. I thought it was pretty funny actually. After all, my dad was a soccer fanatic, and I spent most of my youth playing baseball (even when we lived in Germany!). It seemed only fair that my kids would prefer something else too.

That's probably why I was so surprised when my youngest boy Sean asked if I would sign him up for T-ball.

"Are you sure?" I asked. "Your brothers both picked soccer."

"I'm sure, Dad."

So I signed him up this spring and did my best to keep my expectations low. I tried not to get too excited when he began sitting next to me, asking questions about the players and the rules as I watched the Cubs. I pretended not to notice when he started playing with baseball cards. I tried to maintain my cool when he started asking me to hit him a few grounders, and when he started fielding those grounders with natural ease.

I tried not to explode with pride when he put his hands on his knees in baseball-ready position, and when he requested the coach pitch to him because he didn't need the tee. I pretended not to notice that he was always the first to volunteer for any assignment on the diamond, and that he played a flawless first base, and that the coach considered him "scrappy."

I really thought I was doing a good job of hiding it until Bridget came to a game with me last weekend. Out of the corner of my eye I could see she was staring at me. She had a big grin on her face.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"You," she said.

"What?"

"You've never been happier in your life," she said.

Busted.

I can understand why she's amused. She knows why I'm so happy. It has nothing to do with Sean's athletic ability, which is probably just slightly above average. It has everything to do with his obvious love of the game. I'm just excited because I finally have a baseball buddy in the house.

Plus, as a bonus, these T-ball games are unbelievably entertaining. Whenever someone hits the ball, the entire team chases it. There were eight players crowded around second base trying to field a grounder the other day. That's just funny.

Another time a kid forgot which direction to run, and ran to third base first--which caused a traffic jam on the bases. Hilarious.

Our second baseman spent the entire first inning grooming the infield dirt into a pile, before pouring it into his hat, and putting the hat onto his head. Our third baseman loves to slide so much that she slides into home plate after every runner. Our centerfielder has forgotten to come in when it's our turn to bat because he loves picking dandelions.

That's free entertainment.

And I'm loving every second of it.

Career Planning

2008-05-19T21:39:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

My five year old son Sean is about to “graduate” from pre-school and move on to the big bad world of kindergarten. We talked about that on the way home from school the other day.

Dad: Now that you’re going to start kindergarten in a few months, it won’t be long before you have to get a job. Have you thought about you want to be when you grow up?

Sean: Yeah. I’m going to be a policeman.

Dad: Really? Why?

Sean: Because I want to get rich.

Dad: Why do you think policemen get rich?

Sean: Every time somebody goes too fast in their cars, they make people pay money. And when they get the bad guys, they can take all of the bad guys money. Some bad guys have lots of money.

Dad: But the policemen don’t get to keep that money.

Sean: They don’t?

Dad: No. They have to turn it in to their bosses.

Sean: Oh.

Dad: Still want to be a policeman?

Sean: No. I want to be the policeman’s boss.

Dad: But he doesn’t get to keep the money either. He has to turn it in to the government.

Sean: Oh.

Dad: Still want to be a policeman’s boss?

Sean: No. I want to be a fireman.

Dad: Why?

Sean: Because they get the biggest trucks with the loudest sirens.

Dad: And they fight fires.

Sean: What do you mean?

Dad: They put on their fire suits and walk right into the fires, trying to put them out with their fire hoses.

Sean: Right into the fires?

Dad: Yup. Still want to be a fireman?

Sean: No.

Dad: So what do you want to be?

Sean: A mom.

Dad: Why?

Sean: Because then I can do whatever I want.

Dad: But boys can’t be moms.

Sean: Yuh huh. There was a boy mom on TV. He had a baby in his tummy.

(Long silence)

Dad: Does Oma (my mom) watch Oprah when you’re over there?

Sean: Uh huh.

Dad: Remind me to talk to her about that.

Sean: Don’t forget Dad, she’s your mom. She can do whatever she wants.

Mother's Day Recital

2008-05-12T21:20:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Last week I read a great Mother's Day post from a fellow blogger at NWI Parent about Mother's Day. It was about what mothers really want for mother's day.

A few days after I read that piece, my wife Bridget took a few days off work. She didn't go anywhere special, didn't do anything special, just took the time to spend with the boys. I watched how much she loved the little routines that she misses when she goes to work--getting the boys ready for school, making lunches, doing homework, and hearing all about their days. Honestly, she didn't lose that smile on her face for three days in row.

Well last weekend was Mother's Day, and after reading the blog post and observing the way Bridget enjoyed the little things around the house, the boys and I decided to go a different route with her Mother's Day present. We didn't buy her a gift, and the boys didn't make her a gift. Instead, they gave her something she misses every day.

A musical performance.

I've heard the boys perform these songs a million times because they practice after school, but Bridget does not. So, they staged a Mother's Day recital for her. I was not allowed to attend--this was strictly for their mom.

Tommy even created an invitation.

Our extrovert, Sean, was the Master of Ceremonies. He introduced the performers before each song. He also took Bridget's breakfast order, and submitted it to the chef in the kitchen (me).

Of course I heard the whole show while I was making breakfast. I laughed at Sean's hilarious introductions ("Ladies and gentlemen..um..I mean lady...please welcome the the piano playing Johnny playing the piano"), and I cringed at a few of their musical gaffes because I had previously heard each of them perform those songs perfectly in the past, but I could also hear the smile in Bridget's appreciative voice from around the corner.

It was exactly what she wanted for Mother's Day.

And we got to see her beautiful smile for another whole day.

Mother's Day Rap

2008-05-05T21:12:00.001-07:00

When I was still working on the radio, my boys provided a constant stream of material. Every year on Mother's Day, we would go into the studio and produce an audio present for Bridget.

This one was probably my favorite Mother's Day present for Bridget. One long-time fan/listener of the show said it was her favorite bit we did in the ten years of the John Landecker Show on WJMK. It's a rap song starring all three boys. Tommy was seven. Johnny was five. Sean was nine months old. All three can be heard on this recording. Thank you to Vince Argento for his production magic (and artwork).

A few words of explanation: The words Johnny says in the song ("Allerticott" and "Baga") are Johnny's made up words--inside family jokes. He said them in fits of anger when a real insult didn't come to him (allerticott) and for comedy purposes when a real punchline didn't come to him (baga), usually during knock knock jokes.

Click on this link to listen to the song: Mother's Day Rap

It's short, less than a minute long.

That tone of voice

2008-04-28T20:08:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

It’s like fingernails on a chalkboard.

You know the tone of voice. The tone of voice that infers “You’re a Moron” without even saying it. It’s the tone of voice that leaves children whimpering.

When I hear it coming out of another parent’s mouth, I cringe. I’m not judging them–I feel for them. I know they don’t want to do it. I know because I’ve done it myself, and every time I hear it coming out of my own mouth, I wish that I could somehow turn the clock back fifteen seconds.

It happens to all of us. We tell a child to do something over and over and over again, but if they still don’t do it…

We warn a child over and over and over again not to do something, but when they still do it…

When they make the same mistakes time and time again, we can’t help it.

It’s almost impossible to avoid that tone of voice when we’re exasperated. But that tone says so much more than the actual words we’re screaming. That tone says “Why am I wasting my breath on you.” It says “How did I get stuck with such a moron?” It says “I’m embarrassed to be associated with you.”

We’re lashing out because we feel that we’re failing as parents. Yes, we’re mad at them too, but we’re really mad at ourselves because we’re obviously not getting through to them.

That’s why I made it my New Years resolution this year to eliminate it from my repertoire forever. I’ve caught myself a few times already…and taken a step back…and taken a deep breath…and even walked away…and wow has that been hard, but I’m putting that tone of voice behind glass and stamping “In Case of Emergency Only” on it.

Like when they keep wandering out in front of oncoming traffic.

In that case, by all means, I’ll be breaking that glass.

Confession Time

2008-04-14T22:07:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I have gotten quite a reaction to the prom picture I posted in this space last week. (That's it again above.)

Here a few sample comments I received...

A) “Your frilly shirt matches your date’s dress. Please tell me you didn’t plan that.”
B) “Look at her facial expression. She’s screaming ‘I’m dating a fuzzy tuxedo! Save me!’”
C) “Wow. Foxy. When are the two of you meeting up with Huggy Bear?”
D) “You wanna know what I thought when I saw this picture? I thought–’He got a girl to date him?’”
E) “Nice Mustache. You look like a younger, skinnier, and less-hip Dave Wannstedt.”

On the other hand, this whole experience has been oddly liberating. I always pictured that prom photo emerging at a time when it could really damage me (like during a political campaign). By voluntarily allowing it’s release, I controlled the story–I didn’t let it control me.

That’s why I’ve decided to take every other 1970s and 1980s skeleton out of my closet for all to see. After these revelations emerge, I will be “fully vetted.” No one will be able to humiliate me again.

Buckle your seat belts. This could get ugly.

(NOTE: Those of you born after 1985 or so may not get most of these references)

*That tuxedo in the picture? Didn’t rent it. Owned it. It still hangs in my mom’s closet. I wore it a half dozen times including for my high school graduation picture.

*The theme song for my prom was “Theme from Mahogany” ("Do you know where you’re going to"). I thought it was a good idea.

*I wore a gold chain for a decade (1972-1982). That’s right. And it had a “Leo” charm at the end of it, too. If a girl had asked me my sign, I wouldn’t have had to say a word. I could have shown her my necklace. No one ever asked.

*I loved shiny clothing. Jogging suits? Yup. Neon Yellow “Chicago Sting” shirt, jacket, and shorts? Yup. Fire-Engine-Red Satin Jacket? Yup.

*Earth shoes? Wore ‘em. Although I felt oddly off-balance when I did, just like I did when I drove my olive green 1971 Duster.

*I loved Starsky and Hutch so much I tape recorded the theme song off the television with my hand-held tape-recorder microphone. And I listened to it. Often.

*I had a giant belt buckle with my name (”Ricky”) on it. I was 15 at the time. (Look at that picture again. Does this revelation really surprise you?)

*I tell everyone that the first album I bought was Sgt. Pepper by the Beatles. That was actually my second album. My first album was by the Partridge Family. I can still recite the chorus of the hit song… “I think I love you, but what am I so afraid of, I’m afraid that I’m not sure of, a love there is no cure for. Oh, I think I love you, isn’t that what life is made of, though it worries me to say, that I never felt this way.”

*My father once told me that I wasn’t welcome back in the house until I got my hair cut, and I seriously contemplated living in the wilderness. If we had had a better stocked pantry, you’d be reading about a mysterious 44-year-old suburban mountain man.

*The photo that mysteriously appeared on the school bulletin board of the soccer coach picking his butt? Guilty, your honor. You have no idea how much film I wasted before I got the perfect shot of the man who cut me from the team.

*”Grease Soundtrack”? Owned it.

*”Disco Demolition Army” t-shirt? Yup. I also had not one, but two “Death before Disco” shirts. They were shiny.

*What were my friends and I giggling about as we listened to Ted Nugent records right in front of my mother? She had no idea what “Wango Tango” was about.

*My buddy Dave and I worked out every other day and drank protein shakes to gain weight because we were maybe 125 pounds at the time. One day we missed a workout. I haven’t worked out a single time since. That was 1983.

There. Forgive me for not providing any further photographic support for these moments. I think I’ve officially paid my dues.

Anyone care to join me in my humiliation, or have I been “vetted” needlessly?

Blue Velvet

2008-04-07T19:21:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

The year is 1980. It is the height of the Cold War.

A sixteen-year-old boy is attending his junior prom in Heidelberg, Germany. The setting of the prom is magical. It is being held at the Heidelberg Castle, a beautiful, 17th-century structure built high in the hills above the Neckar River. The boy is wearing a blue velvet tuxedo; as soft and fuzzy as the “mustache” on his lip. His date, a diminutive gymnast, is wearing a pale gown. There is a slight chill in the air on this May night, but as the sun sets over the mountain, two Defense Department officials are in the bushes, witnessing the festivities from afar.

Their orders are direct and simple: keep an eye on the sixteen year old, and take whatever precautions necessary to avoid being recognized. They sit at a table on the other side of the castle courtyard, sipping tea and watching the boy dance. After the dancing, they follow him down to the restaurant district where a group of the youngsters stop for a Coca-Cola. There is a close call when one of the officials sneezes, and the young man turns in their general direction—but he sees nothing in the darkness of the evening.

When the car arrives to pick up the boy and his date, the driver somehow instinctively knows which girl is the teenager’s date—even though he hasn’t been told her name or what she looks like. The nervous and uncomfortable teen doesn’t recognize the rookie mistake. The surveillance is another Cold War success.

That’s a true story.

The very real Defense Department officials were my father and one of his coworkers. The sixteen year old they were following around that night was me.

I didn’t find out about it until several years later. By then I was in my early twenties, and we were living in America. My dad’s friend and his wife came to town for a visit, and accidentally spilled the beans. During dinner he turned to me and said, “I understand you have a girlfriend now. Do you still walk ten paces in front of her like you did with your prom date?”

That comment elicited howls of laughter from everyone in the room . . . my dad, my mom, my dad’s friend, his wife, my sister and my brother. I was the only one in the room that wasn’t laughing.

“Did somebody spy on me or something?” I asked.

“You really didn’t know?” my dad’s buddy asked between cackles. “I thought it was a dead giveaway when your dad knew which one was your date. How did he know? You wouldn’t let him meet her before the prom, remember?”

“One lousy mistake,” my dad protested, as if he had heard this taunt a thousand times. “I told you he didn’t notice. Plus, you were the one that sneezed at the restaurant. You could have blown our cover, too.”

“I thought you were looking right at me,” my dad’s buddy admitted to me.

“You both spied on me?” I asked.

“C’mon, put yourself in my place,” my dad explained. “You were being so mysterious about this date. You wouldn’t even tell me her name. I was curious.”

“At least you didn’t poke that poor girl trying to pin on her corsage,” my mom added. “It was a good idea to just hand it to her.”

“Mom, you were there, too?”

She nodded. I looked at the wife of my dad’s friend. She nodded, too.

“I had to see that blue velvet tuxedo,” she added.

I know I should have been mad, but by my early twenties I was all too aware of how entertaining it must have been to watch the awkward and uncomfortable 16-year-old me wearing a blue velvet tuxedo, struggling through a very expensive date with a girl I barely knew. To think that these two couples made my disaster into their own double date seemed somehow appropriate.

“So, did I put on a good show?” I asked.

Everyone laughed again. When they regained their composure, I got the best picture of what it must have been like to watch me that night.

“By the way,” my dad’s friend said, “‘Play That Funky Music, White Boy’ is not a slow dance.”

This article originally appeared in NWI Parent Magazine.

Green Living Idiot

2008-03-31T21:40:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When I saw the title of the book, "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Green Living," (by Trish Riley, Alpha Books), I knew it was going to be perfect for me.

My wife and I have never really been on the same page when it comes to green living. She's militant. I'm more "I don't think I will-itant." I like the idea of being greener, but I've never actually been motivated enough to seek out the information. To be honest, my brain starts to cloud over when the discussion gets a little too scientific. Hence my excitement at the "Complete Idiot" portion of the title.

My wife couldn't contain a grin when I brought it home.

"Don't get too excited," I said. "I've been leafing through it already, and we won't be doing any of the suggestions that cost 4 digits or more."

"That's fine."

"No hybrid cars, no solar panels on the roof, no re-insulating the entire house, and positively no new construction."

She nodded, happy that at least I was taking this first step. And you know what? The first step really wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be.

*We now use fluorescent light bulbs.
They use 70% less energy than regular bulbs.

*We are avid recyclers
My wife no longer has to go picking through the garbage every week to fish out the recyclable material I've unwittingly thrown away.

*We try to use buy more eco-friendly products
Whenever possible, we avoid purchasing things made out of plastic. 80% of trash in oceans is plastic.

*We don't use a lot of energy unnecessarily.
Both my wife and I routinely walk around the house turning off lights that aren't being used and unplugging electrical items that aren't needed. It's not being cheap. It's being eco-friendly.

*We have low flush toilets
I hated them at first, but now I can't remember why. They save 3 gallons of water on every flush.

Plus, we unwittingly lucked out in a couple of other areas.

*Our water heater is in a warm room
This helps save energy because it doesn't take as much to heat up the water as it would in a cold room or the garage.

*Our yard has several shade trees near the house
This helps reduce the amount of sun that gets into our house in the summer, which reduces our need for air-conditioning.

In other areas, we have a long way to go.

*None of our appliances are "Energy Star Appliances"
Although, when our current appliances break down, we will look for Energy Star-rated appliances: washing machines that use 50% less water and energy, dishwashers that use 25% less water, and refrigerators that use 15 to 40% less energy. They don't cost much more, so why not do it?

*Our thermostat settings are not optimal, and probably never will be
According to the book, setting your thermostat at 78 in the summer and 68 in the winter will save 5 to 15 percent in energy usage. We've decided to pick our poison there. I can't sleep when it's hot in our room—so we can't do the 78 in the summer thing. I figure I'm helping out the environment by opting not to. My crankiness (after not getting enough sleep) would have certainly added to the noise pollution problem.

*We're not getting a push mower
I had one as a kid, and I'm sorry—we're not going there. We've got a big yard and I'm not getting any younger.

*We're not turning off the shower while we lather up with soap and shampoo
I had to re-read that portion of the book twice. Do people really do that? That seems a little ridiculous.

The book has lots of other suggestions that we'll probably do (like collecting rain water for irrigation purposes), and lots of other suggestions that we'll never do (like installing waterless urinals? nuh uh), but at least it got us started on the right path.

And I no longer feel like a Complete Idiot.

This article originally appeared in the Green Issue of Shore Magazine

Be Prepared

2008-03-24T22:18:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

After the last Boy Scout trip, an overnight stay at Detroit’s Greenfield Village, the Scoutmaster had a little chat with me when he dropped off my son.

“I really think you should come along next time,” he said. It didn’t sound like a request.

“Was there a problem?” I asked.

“Well…” he didn’t want to say it, but I’ve been living with Tommy for 12 years. I knew.

“Did he wander off?”

He looked relieved. “Yes.”

I promised him I would go along the next time.

I should explain the Tommy dynamic to you. Tommy is the classic absent-minded professor type. He’s a brilliant boy intellectually…so much so that he has a few deficiencies in other areas. What he really needs is a personal assistant–someone to remind him to do the little things in life, like put on his pants, eat, and open the door before walking through it–you know the sort of things that people tend to notice.

That job has fallen to me, largely because I was the same way (minus the intellectual part) when I was boy. I was one of those kids that we now refer to as a “creative type.” I had the same issues as Tommy and (sort of) managed to overcome them. That makes me uniquely able to handle him. I can see the problems that are going to occur before they occur.

Which brings me back to scouting. Now that I’ve described our unique father-son team, try to picture the two of us on a Boy Scout trip. The Boy Scouts have managed to encapsulate all of Tommy’s and my weaknesses into one handbook, around which they’ve created an entire organization. It’s the main reason I wanted him to join. I was hoping somebody would help me teach him the things I can’t teach him. Now it looked like I was going to have to do it after all.

Last weekend was our first Boy Scout trip together.

We went in caravan to Iowa to something called “Merit Badge University.” I chose this as our first trip because I figured we would be able to handle it. It was being held on a college campus (University of Iowa), and I love college campuses. There was no camping involved, which meant that we wouldn’t need to set up a tent. Tommy was working on his computer merit badge–which is certainly NOT among his weaknesses. There were ten dads going on the trip so I wasn’t going to be in a position of responsibility. What could go wrong?

It took less than twenty minutes.

As the caboose in the caravan, I somehow got separated from the other cars in a traffic jam just past Chicago. Even though we were each given walkie-talkies to stay in touch with each other, this is what I heard through the speaker.

“Sy9oie3navoeinvca;’lie8″

I found out later that the garbled mess was telling me to turn onto the next highway. I missed the turn, and just like that, we were lost. Luckily another dad was in my car and he helped me figure out how to get back on track. Even luckier, we caught up to the caravan when they stopped at a truck stop near DeKalb. I was practically tailgating them the rest of the way.

When we arrived at the lodge in Iowa, I exhaled. Even though we would be sleeping on the floor, it was a nice lodge. We were segregated by age–dads on one side, boys on the other. We also segregated the bathrooms by age–dads using the women’s restroom, boys using the men’s. I think it might have had something to do with keeping the boys away from the gigantic supply of feminine hygiene products. That wasn’t a discussion we felt like having.

As I nestled in my sleeping bag that night, I thought, “This isn’t so bad. I think we’re going to be able to pull this off.”

The next morning we drove to the University of Iowa campus. Again, the other dads almost lost me, but I managed to find our final destination. I also helped Tommy find the right classroom for his merit badge study (and wow would that have been a disaster if I wasn’t there–he started walking the exact wrong direction).

Tommy’s teacher, however, was having a bad day. He couldn’t figure out which key to use to get into the classroom. Once we got in the room, he couldn’t figure out how to log onto the computers. He looked around for help, and the only other parent who decided to stick around was me. I saw the look in his eyes. That’s when it hit me. What kind of a dad volunteers to teach the computer class (as opposed to knots, survival skills, aviation, rocket propulsion, etc)? The same kind of dad as me.

I hopped right in to help. Between the two of us, we finally figured out how to handle the computers: by asking the kids. These kids, most of which were just like Tommy, were wizards on the computer. One helped us decipher the sign-on codes. Another one managed to identify the IP address of each computer in the room. Still another worked with the other dad to take apart a computer and point out what each part did. Another one walked the rest of the class through databases on Excel and Access. Tommy showed some of the kids how to use Powerpoint.

At lunchtime, Tommy informed me that my services would not be needed in the afternoon session.

“Why?” I asked. “Am I embarrassing you?”

Before he could answer, I stopped him. It didn’t matter. He knew that he could handle the rest of this day by himself, and I wasn’t going to be needed. That was good enough for me. It’s what I wanted to see.

I picked him up after class and we quietly took a tour of the University. He had a big smile on his face. I could tell that he was invigorated by the atmosphere. It was an institution of higher learning, and there was nothing that Tommy enjoyed more than learning…as long as it was his kind of learning.

That night, after a long day, we had some time to kill back at the lodge. While the older scouts were playing poker on one side of the room, and the younger scouts were having a full-fledged pillow fight on the other side of the room, Tommy got into his sleeping back and fell asleep.

The scoutmaster was concerned that something might be wrong with him. When he asked me, I just smiled.

“No,” I said. “He’s going to be just fine.”

This originally appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing", there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

Young Love

2008-03-18T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I was driving my son Sean to pre-school this week, when he casually dropped this little nugget.

“Dad,” he asked, “What do you call it when one person loves someone, but the other person doesn’t love them back?”

I looked in the rear view mirror to see the expression on his face. He really looked concerned.

“There isn’t really a word for it,” I said. “Why? Do you love someone?”

“No,” he said. “But someone loves me.”

I was intrigued. I knew the conversation would have ended right then and there if I didn’t proceed with caution. If I joked with him at all, I wouldn’t get another morsel. I gingerly continued my line of questioning.

“Who loves you?” I asked.

“Jennifer,” he said.

“How do you know she loves you?”

He sighed, and looked out the window.

“She always follows me around,” he said.

“But you do that to your brothers,” I pointed out.

“She always wants to do stuff for me,” he said. His tone of voice was saying “Geez, Dad, you just don’t understand women, do you?”

“But you like to do stuff for your brothers,” I said. “Maybe she just loves you like a brother.”

“Trust me, Dad. This is different. She doesn’t love me. She loves me.”

I wish I could have taken a picture of that expression on his face. He was a (5-year-old) man with girl troubles, and he didn’t know what to do.

“You mean like a girlfriend loves you?”

“Uh huh.”

We drove in silence for a few moments, and I struggled not to laugh or smile.

“Why does she love you so much?” I asked.

“Because I’m cute,” he said.

I couldn’t be the serious confidante for one second longer. The real me popped right out.

“Did you ever think about asking her to marry you?” I asked.

“DAAAAAD! I’m way too young.”

“What’s old enough to get married?”

“You have to be old. Like you and mom.”

I shook off that little shot to the gut, and queried on.

“But why don’t you love her back?” I asked.

He didn’t say anything for a few moments while he pondered that question. He sighed once more.

“I need my space,” he said.

When we arrived at preschool about two minutes later, Jennifer was the first person we saw. Her whole face lit up when she spotted Sean. She started waving frantically.

“Hi Sean!” she screamed.

He looked at me and rolled his eyes.

This originally appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing", there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

The Birth of Johnny Kaempfer

2008-03-10T19:11:00.001-07:00

Please allow my indulgence to re-live the most memorable days of my life. Mark your calendars for September 19th and October 19th too.

The date was March 12, 1998.

A DECADE AGO!

The headline on the Chicago Sun Times front page: “Cicero deal halts Rally by Klan”

The headline on the Chicago Tribune front page: “Clinton plans to join Ulster peace talks”

The headline on the Daily Herald front page: “Clinton refuses to say whether he will testify to grand jury”

The headline on the New York Times front page: “The World of Paula Jones”

But the biggest story was happening in Mt. Prospect, and only one reporter was on hand to break the story....Me. I called into the John Landecker show that morning to report the news flash. The cast of characters included John Landecker, sidekick Catherine Johns, and newsman Richard Cantu.

The following is a transcript of that important phone call.

John: Oldies 104.3, John Records Landecker, it’s 8:27, and joining us on the phone from the maternity ward is the producer of the program, Rick the German Boy Kaempfer. Good morning, Rick.

Rick: Good morning.

John: Rick, tell us what’s going on.

Rick: Well as long as we’re plugging our kids (John had just plugged his daughter’s play), I’ve got a new one to plug.

John: Aaaawwwwright!

Rick: Last night around eleven thirty Bridget’s water broke and we didn’t even have time to make it to the hospital downtown, so we went to the one out here.

Catherine: Oh, is that right?

Rick: And we have a new baby boy!

(Cheering and clapping in the studio)

Richard: Whoo Hooo! Congratulations. Two knucklehead boys!

Rick: And it’s a big one too.

Catherine: How big?

Rick: 8 pounds, 6 ounces.

Catherine: That is pretty big. How’s Bridget doing?

Rick: She’s doing real well. I’m at home now. I came home to check on Tommy...

John: Wait a doggone minute! You went home to check on your other child before you called the show? Where are your priorities?

Rick: Sorry, forgive me. I’m hopelessly out of whack.

John: OK, 8 pounds. How long was it?

Rick: 21 inches...if you know what I’m saying.

Catherine: We know what you’re saying.

John: No, how long was the baby?

Rick: Oh, the baby?

Richard: Once more into the gutter.

John: So what time was this kid born?

Rick: Two o’clock in the morning. They kicked me out of the hospital at 4:00, because Bridget has to share a room, and I came home and got a little sleep, and Tommy just woke me up, so I’m calling you right away.

John: So you’ve called all your family I hope.

Rick: Bridget called them.

John: But she had the baby.

Rick: Yeah, she had the baby in about two hours. It wasn’t that bad, although that’s easy for me to say. She was fine, what a trooper.

Catherine: And she wanted to chat, right?

Rick: Exactly.

Catherine: Now I want to know something. Does this child have a name?

Rick: Oh yes he does. His name is John Richard Kaempfer.

John: Wow.

Richard: You honor us, Sir.

John: Was he named after anyone?

Rick: Well, my favorite Beatle is John.

John: John Lennon.

Rick: And of course, my favorite DJ....

John: Really?

Rick: Yup. John Brandmeier.

(Everyone laughs)

John: OK, you got me.

(Call waiting clicks)

Rick: And actually John is also a name in Bridget’s family. Her grandfather was named John. And so is her brother.

(Call waiting clicks again)

John: I see you got baby waiting there.

Rick: Yeah, I think I may be popular today.

John: Well, we’ll let you go. Congratulations on the big news! So you’ll be back to work tomorrow, right?

Rick: Uh...well...

Catherine: John!

John: Just kidding, just kidding.

Rick: See you later.

John: There he goes. Proud papa.

(Click)

John: Oh wait! Darnit! I forgot to ask him if he taped it.

Richard: Are you kidding? Of course he did.

John: Because if there was ever a disc jockey who knows how to exploit a child, it’s....

2 year old Tommy Kaempfer singing the jingle: John Records Landecker, Oldies 104.3.

Of course, I did tape it, by the way. It aired the next day. Friday the 13th.

By the time Johnny was three he was doing movie reviews and jokes on the radio. He also accompanied the show to the Dominican Republic for a live broadcast. That's him in the photo there chatting with Leslie Keiling.

The Oscars through the eyes of a 12-year-old

2008-03-04T00:03:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I never miss the Academy Awards even if I haven’t seen a single one of the movies up for best picture. This year, I believe, marked the third straight year that I hadn't seen any of them. I’m sure they were all fine films, but well, we don’t get out much.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed watching the show with my oldest son Tommy. It was fun watching an event like this through the eyes of someone who doesn’t have any of the pop culture reference points I do.

John Travolta? Yawn. Steven Spielberg? Yawn. Jack Nicholson? Yawn.

Tom Hanks? “Hey, that’s the voice of Woody!”

Owen Wilson? “Hey, that’s the voice of Lightning McQueen!”

Miley Cyrus? “Hey, that’s Hannah Montana.”

The categories that didn’t interest me at all were his favorites. Achievement in sound? Now you’re talkin’. Best Special Effects? Whoa, cool. Best Animated feature? He actually yelled “SWEET!” when Ratatouille was announced as the winner.

He loved the songs. He loved the short film categories. He loved the technical categories. During the screenwriting categories he looked at me and nodded toward the TV set. It was a “Hey Dad, that’s your category, nod.” It was cute. He doesn’t realize the difference between a writer and an Academy Award winning screenwriter. It’s all the same thing, right?

But I thought we had our biggest bonding moment when the Honorary Oscar was awarded to Robert Boyle. He was so old he had to be helped to the podium.

“See that guy right there, Tommy?” I said. “They said he was 98 years old. That means he was born in 1909 or 1910.”

“Yeah, so?” Tommy said.

“That means he was born after the Cubs last won the World Series.”

That put a face on it for him. Maybe, just maybe, he is beginning to understand his father’s pain.

This originally appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing", there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

The Worst Part

2008-02-18T20:24:00.001-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When other men find out I’m a stay at home dad, I usually see a certain look in their eyes. It’s not exactly pity, but it’s a close relative. I can see the wheels spinning in their heads, wondering how they would do in the same situation. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, I usually get the same question.

“What’s the worst part?” they ask.

I have a stock answer to that question, and it always surprises them.

“Crafts.”

They think I’m joking. They don’t understand the magnitude of the problem, but it’s something I face every single day. I don’t care if it sounds benign and harmless. It’s the bane of my existence. I hate crafts.

I mean it. I really, really, really hate crafts.

If you’re the parent of young children, you know what I’m talking about. You have to do crafts all the time. It starts during the first “mom and tot” class at the park district. As soon as you walk in the door, the teacher hands you (not the kid) some construction paper, crayons, scissors, and three cotton balls.

“Today we’re making snowmen!”

It gets more and more involved as they get older.

I have three boys. In pre-school we created a lifetime supply of paper ghosts, goblins, thanksgiving turkeys, snowmen and snowflakes. In Kindergarten we made countless leaves, Indians, Valentine hearts, shamrocks, and mother’s day cards; not to mention many, many more snowmen and snowflakes.

When did it stop? It hasn’t.

First grade, second grade, third grade, fourth grade. Crafts, crafts, crafts, crafts. Is it time for the science fair? Great! Load up on supplies and start cutting, drawing, painting, pasting and creating. Get some markers, paint brushes, construction paper, cardboard, scissors, glue, silly putty, Play-doh and yarn.

“Dad,” my oldest son said. “This year let’s make an exploding volcano for the science fair.”

“Oh don’t worry, pal,” I said. “I can almost guarantee you an exploding volcano.”

Religious Education is no escape from crafts, either. Every year at Easter time, you can bet we’ll be making a cross.

“Shouldn’t we be allowed to resurrect last year’s cross?” I asked.

The teacher’s incredulous glare let me know it wasn’t an option.

“What?” I said. “It’s thematically appropriate.”

If it’s a new day, it’s a new craft. Here’s a big blob of clay and some shellac. Make a duck. Here’s a pinecone and a jar of peanut butter. Make a lure for squirrels. Here’s a stick, a leaf, a blade of grass, a jar of Elmer’s glue and a tongue depressor. Make Benjamin Franklin discovering electricity.

“Make it yourself,” I think to myself. “I’ll happily pay $20.”

Oh…how…I…hate…crafts.

(Exhale)

There, I feel better. Sometimes you just need to vent.

Now if you’ll kindly excuse me, I’m looking for a shoe box, a carrot, three jelly beans, a baggie full of mini M&Ms and a quarter. My son and I have to make a diorama of George Washington crossing the Delaware.

This also appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing," Click here to check it out.

I got a little verklempt

2008-02-11T19:28:00.001-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I was watching one of my favorite TV shows a few weeks ago (The Colbert Report) and something unexpected happened. I got a little verklempt.

Colbert does a comedy show, but on this Tuesday night he did a lengthy piece about his Dad–and it was totally serious. In 1969 his father negotiated an end to the African-American hospital workers strike in South Carolina with civil rights leader Andrew Young. Young was Colbert’s in-studio guest on Tuesday night, and he praised the elder Colbert as a voice of reason in a time of great turmoil. The younger Colbert, the stone-faced deadpan humorist, very briefly lost the battle with his emotions for a split second. His face swelled with pride, and his eyes welled up.

Mine did too.

My wife watched the same thing and didn’t see it at all.

What can I say? It’s a dad thing. Every man I know has father issues, but for people like Stephen Colbert–who lost his father when he was young, those issues run deep. I could see it in his eyes.

And I could see it in my eyes. I also lost my dad when I was young. I also have great pride in my father. I also have people tell me stories about my dad with the same passion and respect that Andrew Young professed to Colbert.

I don’t care who you are–that will make you a little verklempt.

It makes your mind go there, to that place you don’t normally allow yourself to go. You suddenly miss your dad so much you can’t bear it.

My dad has been gone so long I can’t even hear his voice anymore. That’s probably one of the reasons I have so overcompensated with my own boys. I’ve tried to use my father as a model—his steady temperament and his guiding hand, while trying to give them what he couldn’t give me...time. It’s one of the reasons I’ve decided to stay home and raise them.

In the one split second I saw Stephen Colbert drop the facade, that’s what was going through my mind.

And I got a little verklempt.

(Here's something else that will get you a little verklempt on Abraham Lincoln's birthday: Honest Abe. Thank you child poet David Stern for touching my heart.)

This originally appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing", there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

The Right Question

2008-02-05T00:04:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I find that extracting information from the boys is one of the most difficult things to do. You can’t ask them generic questions (”How was school? Did you have fun?”) and expect anything more than generic answers (”Fine.” “Yup.”)

That’s why my wife and I challenge each other to come up with very specific questions to ask them instead. It’s amazing what comes out when you ask questions they aren’t expecting. The other day my wife hit a home run when she asked our five year old son Sean a question that I never would have asked.

(To understand the conversation, you need to know a few things. The boys call my mom “Oma.” That’s the German word for grandma. She watches Sean two afternoons a week.)

Bridget: Do you ever watch TV at Oma’s house?

Sean: All the time.

Bridget: What do you watch?

Sean: Oma’s stories.

Bridget: Do you know the names of the stories?

Sean: All My Children on ABC.

Bridget: Do people kiss on that show?

Sean: Uh huh. And they sleep a lot.

Bridget: You mean they’re in bed?

Sean: Uh huh.

Bridget: What are they wearing?

Sean: Nothing.

Bridget: Really?

Sean: But it just looks like nothing. They’re really wearing underpants.

Bridget: What kind of underpants?

Sean: Skin colored.

Bridget: What else do they do on that show?

Sean: One guy went to jail because he showed his butt to everyone in the world.

Bridget: Do you like that show?

Sean: No. But the butt was funny. (laughs)

This originally appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing", there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

A Wacky Remedy

2008-01-29T00:05:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

My wife and boys decided shortly after I became the stay-at-home dad that “care-giving” wasn’t exactly my strong suit. It might have something to do with my German “quit your bellyaching and tough it out” approach to illness. Unfortunately, we’ve discovered together that some illnesses can’t be beaten simply with a strong will and a glass of ginger ale.

So, when the boys get sick, even though I’m the one that’s home with them, I’m in constant touch with the tower asking for help. Normally I just do exactly what my wife tells me to do, but every now and then she’ll give me some advice that makes me question her own qualifications.

For instance, about a month ago when Johnny had a hacking cough keeping him up at night, she suggested something that seemed completely crazy.

“Rub some Vick’s on the bottom of his feet,” she said.

I was waiting for the punch line…and it never came.

“On the bottom of his feet? Where did you hear that one?”

“I got one of those mass e-mails that had been forwarded a million times from the sister of my friend’s mother’s neighbor the other day, and this e-mail claims it works like a charm.”

Of course.

“Was she writing from Nigeria, and did she also suggest you give her all of your bank account information?”

“No, this is legit.”

“Sure sounds like it. Have the mass forwarded e-mails from the sister of your friend’s mother’s neighbor ever been wrong?”

“Just do it.”

“Did the e-mail end with ‘forward this to ten of your best friends and you will have ten years of good luck’?”

“Shut up and get the Vapo-Rub,” she said. “It’s in the medicine cabinet.”

When I told Johnny what I was about to do, he looked at me like I was crazy.

“On the bottom of my feet?” he asked. “What did mom say to do?”

“This is her idea,” I said, with a roll of my eyes. “Just let me do it this one time to prove to your mother it doesn’t work, and we’ll never have to do it again.”

He seemed to accept that explanation and went along with it.

A funny thing happened that night. He didn’t cough, and he slept like a baby. When his brothers got sick the next week, I tried it on them too. It worked again. When Bridget got sick the following week, it worked for her too.

I haven’t gotten sick yet, so I can’t tell you how it feels, and I still don’t understand how it works, but I’m not rolling my eyes anymore. Apparently, the sister of my wife’s friend’s mother’s neighbor is the Doctor Spock of our generation. That must be why her e-mails get forwarded millions of times.

How smart is she? Mr. Vick doesn’t even know about the power of his own product. I read every word of the packaging and it doesn’t say a thing about putting it on the bottom of your feet.

Have any of you heard of this remedy?

If so, have you had similar success?

This originally appeared on my blog at NWI Parent, "Father Knows Nothing." If you haven't yet checked out "Father Knows Nothing", there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

Funny Kid Videos

2008-01-21T21:29:00.001-08:00

They say the darndest things...

4-year-old Juke Box Hero...

Funny German kids...

Overheard in the mudroom

2008-01-15T00:02:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I overheard this conversation a few weeks ago. My two youngest sons were putting on their snowpants and boots, and getting ready to play in the snow. Sean (age 5) and Johnny (age 9) had no idea I could hear them because I was sitting around the corner.

Sean: Why did Dad say we shouldn’t eat snow?

Johnny: He just means the yucky snow.

Sean: What’s the yucky snow?

Johnny: Anything that isn’t white.

Sean: All snow is white.

Johnny: Nuh uh. Sometimes it’s gray or black. That means it’s dirty. If you eat it, it’s like you’re eating mud.

Sean: What if it’s blue?

Johnny: It’s never blue.

Sean: What if it is?

Johnny: It won’t be. It could be yellow, though. Don’t eat that. It’s animal pee. And brown is animal—

Sean: What if it’s green?

Johnny: That’s just the grass underneath it.

Sean: What if it’s orange?

Johnny: It won’t be orange.

Sean: But if it’s a snowman’s nose, it could be orange. Snowmans have orange noses.

Johnny: They do not.

Sean: (forcefully) YES THEY DO. They have carrots.

Johnny: Fine.

Sean: What if it’s red?

Johnny: That’s blood.

Sean: No, it’s not. It’s diarrhea.

Johnny: (forcefully) NO, it’s NOT. Diarrhea is brown.

Sean: I had red diarrhea one time.

Johnny: No you didn’t.

Sean: (forcefully) YES I DID.

Johnny: Not outside in the snow.

(LONG SILENCE)

Sean: Maybe an animal has red diarrhea.

Johnny: What kind of animal?

Sean: A red fire Pokemon.

Johnny: Those aren’t real.

Sean: What about a cardinal?

Johnny: All birds have white poop.

(LONG SILENCE)

Sean: But I thought you said that white snow…

Johnny: Uh oh.

Holiday Letter 2007

2008-01-08T00:03:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I've gotten quite a bit of feedback from friends and family about the Kaempfer family Holiday letter. Since I don't have all of your addresses, I thought I would reprint the letter here.

Happy New Year!

Dear Friends and Family:

It's been an eventful 2007 at the Kaempfer house.

*In February, Tommy (age 11) won a Pinewood Derby race! The other Cub Scout dads congratulated Rick on the victory, but Rick was forced to publicly admit that Bridget made the car.

*In March, Sean (age 5) officially gave up trying to make friends with his older brothers. He now spends his days plotting passive-aggressive revenge. Among his greatest hits, this casual little gem, uttered in Johnny's general direction as he was leaving for school one day…"Magic 8-ball, will Sean be playing with Johnny's toys all day? Hmmm. What does Y-E-S spell?"

*In early May Bridget started a new job at a private equity firm. The job came with its own workout program. She now runs several miles a week because she's constantly late for the train.

*In mid-May, the Kaempfers went camping as a family for the very first time. After a refreshing hike through the woods, Rick and Bridget spent the rest of the weekend picking hundreds of ticks out of every nook and cranny of Tommy, Johnny and Sean. They threw the last tick in the fire just before the thunderstorm began.

*In early June Rick's novel "$everance" was released just as the boys were getting out of school for the summer. He conducted dozens of slightly distracted radio interviews on the phone while all three boys were at home…an experience that may have inspired another book. Tentative working title: "What was that thump?"

*In mid-June, a desperate Bridget took the boys to Benihana in an effort to get them to try new foods. The boys, especially Johnny (age 9), oohed and aahed as the chefs performed a chop-tastic knife show. Unfortunately, recreating this success at home will require a paramedic.

*In July, Rick forgot to apply sunscreen before going outside on a hot afternoon, and his lips became horribly blistered. The next day, he got the biggest zit he's had since high school. The following night, a playful wrestling session with Sean resulted in a gaping wound to Rick's cheek. If you want to see what he looked like during that regrettable three day period, just ask him to show you his driver's license picture. It happened right before he got it renewed.

*In September, Sean started collecting beer bottle caps. He now requests to go "beer shopping" and has been seen looking in other people's refrigerators asking a question any typical five-year-old might ask: "What kind of beer you got?"

*In October Tommy turned 12. His age is now equal to the number of words he speaks to his parents in a given day.

*In November, Johnny and Sean got along with each other for eight days. In a row. The Guinness people have been in touch.

That's it for us. We hope you have wonderful and joyous holiday season, and a truly memorable 2008—the one hundredth anniversary of the Cubs' last World Series title.

Love,
Rick, Bridget, Tommy, Johnny & Sean

If you haven't yet checked out my blog at NWI Parent ("Father Knows Nothing"), there are several new columns there that I haven't shared here at Suburban Man headquarters.

Click here to see them.

Innocence Lost

2007-12-17T19:51:00.001-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Have you ever had a joke get away from you?

It started innocently enough.

When my oldest boy Tommy was just learning to talk, I used to tell a joke every time I fixed one of his toys. Keep in mind I only told this joke if his mother was within hearing distance.

The joke: “Remember Tommy, Dad can fix anything.”

My wife laughed every time I said it because I’m such a mechanical moron.

I’m not just being self-effacing here. I’m really, really, worthless. When we got married, one of the first things my wife purchased for us was an actual tool box to replace the Marshall Field’s box I used to store my four tools (screwdriver, hammer, pliers, and pointy metal thing.) She also bought some more tools, and she even knows how to use them.

As Tommy grew older (he’s 12 now), I said the joke less and less because his toys got more and more complicated. Pretty soon, I was able to fix almost nothing. Instead of even trying, I would send him to his mother. At some point I assumed he had figured out that his mother was the mechanical one.

He hadn’t.

We were going over his latest report card the other day, and Tommy was a little concerned about his grade in gym class. I told him not to worry about it. “Everybody has their strengths and weaknesses, and you did well in all the academic subjects. That’s your strength. Gym just happens to be your weakness.”

“But you don’t have any weaknesses,” he said in all seriousness.

“Are you kidding? I have tons of weaknesses.”

“Like what?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m not exactly mechanically inclined.”

His mouth dropped open.

“What do you mean? You can fix anything.”

“No I can’t,” I said. “That’s a joke. I only say that to make your mom laugh, because she knows that I can’t fix anything.”

He was crushed. He didn’t say a word for several seconds as he processed this bombshell.

“Are you OK buddy?” I asked.

He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t.

“So,” he said tentatively, “when you call yourself Mr. Rand McNally…”

I nodded sadly. “Remember when I got lost trying to find the Cubs Scout outing? And the time I got lost in Ikea? And that night we looked all over the parking lot for our car? And…”

He held his hand in the air. He had heard enough.

I probably shouldn’t have copped to this the same week we had our little talk about Santa Claus. A young boy can only handle so much.

This article first appeared on the blog of "NWI Parent," a publication of the Northwest Indiana Times. I'm now a regular columnist/blogger for them, writing a weekly column called "Father Knows Nothing"

2007 Toy Guide

2007-12-04T00:03:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When my kids handed me their Christmas lists this year, my mouth dropped open. After I regained my composure, I said what any sane parent (not named Rockefeller) would have said: "Sorry kids, Santa told me he's not bringing anything this year that costs more than $100."

"But Dad…"

But nothing. Don't tell Santa there isn't anything worthwhile out there for less than $100. We found a ton of gift ideas, and we don't even have Santa's extensive connections in the toy world.

Some of these toys are for girls, some are for boys, some are for younger kids, and some are for the "But Dad" crowd, but every single one of them costs less than a hundred dollars.

Ten Toys Under $50

Quizmo
(FatBrain, Suggested Retail price: $15)
This hand held quiz game is for kids 7 and up. It has all the features kids love in their handheld gizmos, including flashing lights and beeps, but it also clandestinely educates them (Quizmo answers 693,135 questions). Why isn't it for kids under 7? It doesn't answer their favorite question: "Why?"
Quizmo is available at Smarti Pants Toys in Highland.

Cranium Zooreeka
(Cranium, Suggested Retail price: $17.99)
In our family we've always found the Cranium games to be a step above the other games on the market. Cranium's latest effort, Zooreeka, was voted the Best Game of the Year at the 2007 Toy Fair, and it's easy to see why. It's perfect for kids who have trouble maintaining their own habitats.
Zooreeka is available at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart, and Target.

Cranium Sounds of the Seashore
(Cranium, Suggested Retail price: $17.99)
This is a Cranium game for little kids (3 and up). It's a matching and memory game featuring the sights and sounds of the sea. It's just the thing for America's global warming generation.
Sounds of the Seashore is available at Toys R Us and Target.

Hannah Montana Singing Doll
(Disney, Suggested Retail Price: $29.99)
If you have a daughter, you know all about Disney Channel's biggest attraction: Hannah Montana. This Hannah doll even sings her hit song "Best of Both Worlds." Ear plugs for parents not included.
Hannah Montana Singing Doll is available at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart & Target for around $20.

Rubik's Revolution
(Sevens Town Ltd, Suggested Retail Price: $34.95)
The makers of the original Rubik's Cube have come out with a new handheld electronic version of the cube that has six built-in-games (and no cubes to turn). It's also not quite as challenging as the original because it's aimed at 5-10 year olds, but that just means that the rest of us have a chance this time.
Rubik's Revolution is available at Toys R Us and Target (for around $20).

Motion Detector
(Snap Circuits, Suggested Retail Price: $21.95)
This motion detector is aimed at the 8-10 year old crowd. It's a Snap Circuits toy, which means it must be assembled, but it's really not that difficult. And once it's assembled, anyone who walks in front of it is greeted with the sound of a laser and a flashing red light. Unlimited fun for families with cats and dogs.
Motion Detector is available at Smarti Pants Toyz in Highland

Bathtub Car Wash
(Alex Toys, Suggested Retail Price: $25.00)
Finally a bath toy that actually makes sense. This toy has received the National Parenting Seal of Approval. It comes with little washable cars, and a squeegee that needs to be filled with liquid soap. It's virtually impossible for a child to play with this toy without getting clean.
Bathtub Car Wash is available at Smarti Pants Toyz in Highland.

Barbie Chat Diva
(Mattel, Suggested Retail Price: $29.95)
The most realistic Barbie on the market. This one talks on the cell phone all day.
Barbie Chat Diva is available at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart & Target.

TMX Elmo
(Fisher Price, Suggested Retail Price: $39.99)
Winner of the "Best Toy of the Year" award at the 2007 Toy Fair, it's similar to the earlier 'must have' Tickle Me Elmo. This one, however, performs new tricks when he's tickled, including falling over on his side, shimmying on his back, and lying on his belly and slapping the floor next to him.
TMX Elmo is available at Toys R Us and Target.

EyeClops Bionic Eye
(Jakks Pacific, Suggested Retail Price: $49.99)
Point the eye at anything and it magnifies it by 200 times, displaying the image on your television screen. Kids will be amazed by close up looks at things like hair and salt, and will be grounded if they try to get a close up look at dad's bald spot.
EyeClops Bionic Eye is available at Toys R Us and Wal-Mart.

Five Toys Under $100

Fold 2 Go Trike
(Radio Flyer, Suggested Retail Price: $99.99)
Winner of the "Best Outdoor Toy" award at the Toy Fair 2007, this is a tricycle that comes completely assembled (my prayers have been answered!). It folds up, is made of sturdy steel, has real rubber tires, and can handle any terrain. Did I mention it comes assembled?
Fold 2 Go Trike is available at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart & Target at prices ranging from $39.99 to $64.95.

Kid Tough Digital Camera
(Fisher Price, Suggested Retail Price: $69.99)
An actual functioning digital camera with 1.6 inch color display, built for little hands, and much, much, more durable than a grown up digital camera. It was chosen as the best electronic/entertainment toy at the 2007 Toy Fair. It comes in both pink and blue, and is the perfect present for a little brother or sister who can't fight back without incriminating photos.
Kid Tough Digital Camera is available at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart, and Target at prices ranging from $49.99 to $64.99.

LEGO Creator Monster Dino
(LEGO, Suggested Retail Price: $89.99)
The Dino LEGO has batteries, motors, remote controls, censors, and easy to follow instructions. He can walk, move his head, and roar. Engineering degree not included.
LEGO Creator Monster Dino is available at Toys R Us and Target. Alsip Nursery in Frankfort and St. John also carries Legos products.

Smart Cycle
(Fisher Price, Suggested Retail Price: $99.99)
This toy was featured on the Today show a few months ago. The smart cycle is a child-sized stationary bike for 3-6 year old kids. Simply plug the jack into the TV, insert the software cartridge, and voila, your child is riding in a video game. Instead of turning his brain to mush, however, this video game forces him to exercise.
The Smart Cycle is available at Toys R Us and Target.

Spy Video Car
(Wild Planet, Suggested Retail Price: $174.99)
Winner of the "Best Toy for Boys" award at the 2007 Toy Fair, the Spy Video Car has an infrared night-vision video camera attached to it's front bumper. When the child puts on the special spy goggles, he or she can see what the camera sees. It works indoors and out, daytime and night, has a range of 75-feet, and almost certainly will see something it's not supposed to see.
Despite the suggested retail price, Spy Video Car was available at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart, and Target for less than $100 at press time.

Aren't we forgetting something?

You might have noticed that we've mentioned several award winning toys, including the winner for "Best Toy", "Best Outdoor Toy," "Best Game", "Best Entertainment/Electronic Toy," and the "Best Toy for Boys."

What about "Best Toy For Girls?"

You might not be surprised to learn that the "Best Toy for Girls" (FuReal Friends Butterscotch Pony) doesn't qualify thanks to Santa's "Under $100" rule this year. It retails for $299.99. We only mention it now because we know the truth. Dads are suckers for their little girls. (They have it at Toys R Us, Wal-Mart and Target, Dad.)

We'll even give you a free rationalization. It's cheaper than a real pony.

This article appears in the Nov/Dec issue of NWI Parent Magazine. There's another piece of mine in the same issue.

Also, check out my blog at NWI Parent. It's called "Father Knows Nothing"

A Turkey Story

2007-11-20T00:02:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When the last time you did a seventh grade homework assignment?

My sister is teaching 7th grade language arts, and her class had an assignment that was giving them trouble. She wanted to show them what could have been done with it, so she asked me if I knew a writer that would be willing to tackle the project. (She's very subtle.)

The class was given the following writing prompt...

You are a turkey farmer. One day while you are feeding the troops, one of the birds begins to say the alphabet. A thought pops through your mind, “Instead of selling these turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner, I could . . .

I wrote the following story...

Roscoe the Turkey

Rudy came out to the pen to feed all the turkeys like he did every morning, but this weekend before Thanksgiving, he was also coming out to say a final farewell to his favorite turkey Roscoe.

"Roscoe," Rudy sighed, "I brought you breakfast."

Rudy tossed the food into the pen as he always did, but this morning instead of responding with his usual clucking noise, Roscoe said the letter "A." He pecked at another bit of food, and then said the letter "B". He took another bite, and said another letter until he had eaten twenty six times, and recited twenty six letters of the alphabet.

Rudy ran back to the farm to tell his father. "Dad," he yelled, huffing and puffing with excitement and fatigue after the long run, "Dad, we can't sell these turkeys for Thanksgiving dinner!"

His father looked up from the tractor. "Why not boy?"

"Roscoe can say the alphabet," Rudy said. He held his hands at his hips as he regained his breath.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Roscoe, the turkey," Rudy explained. "He can say the alphabet. He just said the entire thing, A-Z."

"Great," his father replied. It was obvious he didn't believe him. "He'll make someone a fine Alphabet turkey soup."

"I'm serious, Dad,'" he said. "We can make more money if we keep him. Think of what someone will pay to watch a talking turkey. We can take him to the State Fair and make a fortune."

That got his father's attention, and a few minutes later Rudy and his father were both leaning against the turkey pen fence, watching Roscoe say the letters of the alphabet. Rudy was mesmerized, but his father still wasn't impressed.

"I don't know, boy," his father said doubtfully. "It's only the alphabet."

Rudy tried another tactic. "Dad, what if I told you that Roscoe also knows about insects, bodies of water, parts of your face, the host of the Tonight Show, and the most popular drink in England. Would you promise to spare him if I could prove he knows those things?"

His father smiled. "Rudy, if you prove that, we're going to the State Fair."

Rudy tossed another bit of food into the pen. Roscoe said "A". Then Rudy asked him, "Roscoe, what do you call that flying, stinging, black and yellow insect?"

"Bee," Roscoe said.

Next Roscoe identified the body of water in the Mediterranean (Sea), and after another few specks of food identified the part of the face that provides sight (Eye), followed immediately by the first name of Tonight Show Host Leno (Jay), and after another few pecks, he identified the favorite drink in England (Tea).

Rudy's father was impressed. The people who each paid five dollars at the State Fair to see Roscoe answer those same questions were just as impressed.

That Thanksgiving for the first time ever, Rudy's family ate ham.

Her class loved the story, except for Tommy's best friend. He gave it a 2 out of 10, and said that I really needed to work on my writing technique.

That child has been banned from my home.

It was sixteen years ago this week...

2007-11-13T00:03:00.001-08:00

We were married on November 16, 1991 at St. Michael's church in Wheaton. The reception was at the Schwaben Center in Buffalo Grove. The honeymoon was in St. Kiits.

Tommy arrived in 1995. Johnny in 1998. Sean in 2002.

And despite the sixteen years of living with me, the birth of three boys, the diapers, the crying, and the constant stress of raising a family, the bride looks exactly the same...As stunning today as she was in her bridal gown on November 16, 1991.

Happy anniversary, Bridget.

If you're a fan of "Suburban Man", check out the blog of "NWI Parent," a publication of the Northwest Indiana Times. I'm now a regular columnist/blogger for them, writing a weekly column called "Father Knows Nothing"

More Funny Mom & Dad videos

2007-11-06T00:05:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

A few weeks ago I featured some of the funny "Mom & Dad" videos that readers sent to me. That column inspired a few more contributions. Keep 'em coming!

Here are a couple from "K" in Atlanta.

Daddy Pachelbel Bedtime

The Crying Game

Be sure to check out the blog of "NWI Parent," a publication of the Northwest Indiana Times. I'm now a regular columnist/blogger for them, writing a weekly column called "Father Knows Nothing"

Halloween isn't for Everyone

2007-10-30T00:00:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Halloween was always one of my favorite holidays when I was kid. Getting dressed up in a costume, ringing doorbells, getting free candy…what’s not to love?

When my oldest son Tommy got to the trick-or-treating age, I was looking forward to reliving the excitement with him. I figured he was going to love it as much as I did.

He didn’t.

In fact, he couldn’t stand any of it. He particularly hated dressing up in a costume. When he was five, he grudgingly agreed to wear the Woody costume because he loved Toy Story, but only if we promised he could take off the cowboy hat the second after I took the obligatory Halloween picture. We came to the same agreement when he was six, and seven, and eight.

By third grade, when he didn’t fit into the Woody costume anymore, he was ready to quit the Halloween tradition once and for all.

I figured his lack of enthusiasm had to be my fault somehow. My enthusiasm for Halloween must not have been translating properly. Maybe if I tried a little harder to get into that little braniac head of his, tried to think of the kind of costume he would like, maybe that would win him over.

So I told him we would brainstorm ideas.

“Tommy, you don’t have to pick one of these costumes in the store, or try to be like one of the other kids, you know. You can be anything you want to be for Halloween.”

Tommy wasn’t the greatest at brainstorming. “I want to be Tommy,” he said.

“You know what Albert Einstein used to say?”

That piqued his interest. Einstein is his hero.

“He said God’s greatest gift to mankind is imagination, because with imagination, there are no limits to what you can achieve.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Einstein said that?”

“Yes, he did. Now use that imagination of yours, Tommy, and I promise you that we will create a costume for whatever you come up with—no limits. Anything at all.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything.”

“OK,” he said, “I want to be an accountant.”

He was the only accountant in the 3rd grade that year. He dressed up in a suit and tie, and carried a calculator. The next year he dressed up as an artist. He wore a smock and a beret (until the second after I took the picture). In 5th grade he was a scientist. He wore a white lab coat.

Now he’s in middle school and the kids don’t have to dress up anymore. When he found that out, he broke into the biggest grin I’d seen on his face in years.

This year he’s finally wearing the costume he wants to wear for the first time.

He’s going as Tommy.

This article first appeared on the blog of "NWI Parent," a publication of the Northwest Indiana Times. I'm now a regular columnist/blogger for them, writing a weekly column called "Father Knows Nothing"

Episode 10

2007-10-23T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When I was the executive producer of the John Records Landecker show on WJMK in the 90s, I created a superhero named "Suburban Man." Unlike the hapless Suburban Man often featured in this column, superhero Suburban Man could save anyone from any suburban crisis.

This feature ran on the show every Thursday morning for nearly six months. It starred John as Suburban Man and Leslie Keiling as his wife Marge.

I'm going to present my favorite episodes once a month between now and the end of the year. If you live in the suburbs, you just may recognize the main character of the show...

SUBURBAN MAN, EPISODE 10: “Kryptonite”

Anncr:
Faster than a lawyer behind an ambulance...More powerful than (the late) Donald Stevens in Rosemont...Able to leap from lawn care to charcoal grills in a single bound...

Voice #1:
Look—there—out on the drive,

Voice #2:
It’s a van,

Voice #3:
It’s a mini-van,

Anncr:
IT’S SUBURBAN MAN.
Disguised as Herb Jenkins, Village clerk, even his wife Marge doesn’t suspect his true identity. When a neighborhood crisis erupts, Herb goes to the nearest garage, dons his superhero safety goggles and ‘World’s Greatest Chef’ apron and becomes SUBURBAN MAN!

Marge (on the phone):Do what you have to do, Thelma. Grubs can destroy a lawn. Bye now, dear.

(Sfx: hangs up)

Herb:
Does Thelma have grubs?

Marge:
Don’t worry, Herb. She hired a lawn service.

(DRAMATIC MUSIC)

Herb:
But that will cost a fortune. They have bags and bags of Grub X at Home Depot.

Marge:
Oh Dear.

(DRAMATIC MUSIC)

Marge:
There’s only one man who can save her some money now. Herb? Herb? (Door opens, closes, etc. sfx) Why, you’re not Herb, you’re Suburban Man!

Suburban Man:
That’s right, Marge. If you’ll kindly toss me the keys to your mini-van, I’m going to Home Depot.

Anncr:
As Suburban Man races off to Home Depot, Marge suddenly realizes the implications. Donning her own superhero disguise, ‘Soccer Mom’ rushes off to save the hero of the Suburbs.

(Sfx: Electronic Door opening)

Suburban Man:
Aaah, Home Depot, my favorite store. (walking sfx) The Grub X should be right over here. Hmm. Maybe I’ll just check out the ceiling fans first. (walking sfx) Whoa. Three speed settings. (Sfx: Pulling cord to ceiling fan) Hey! Look at those drill bits. Maybe I’ll just…

Home Depot Guy:
Hi, Suburban Man. You’re not here by yourself, are you?

Suburban Man:
It’s OK, Mr. Orange Apron. I don’t have a problem anymore. I just came in for….Hey! That’s nice lookin’ lumber. Maybe I’ll just make me another deck.

Home Depot Guy:
Uh oh. (over intercom) We got a code red.

(ALARM SFX)

Suburban Man:
Whoa. Kitchen fixtures. And Paint. Paint! (Going into a trance) The garage could use another coat. MIDRE SAWS! Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Saws. Circular Saws!

Home Depot Guy (over intercom):
Quick! Somebody call Soccer Mom before it’s too late.

(Dramatic and uplifting music)

Soccer Mom:
Don’t worry, Mr. Orange Apron. I’m already here.

Suburban Man:
TORO! 6 ½ horses. Mulching. Bagging. Side dispensing. Whoooa.

Soccer Mom:
Suburban Man. Look at me. (very slowly) Home…Depot… is….your… kryptonite. It’s very dangerous for you to be here.

Home Depot Guy:
It’s too late, he doesn’t even hear you anymore.

Soccer Mom:
I’ve never seen him this bad.

Suburban Man:
Let me just check out these generator….

(SFX: VERY LOUD SLAP) (Silence for a beat)

Suburban Man:
Where am I?

Anncr:
Just in the nick of time, Soccer Mom saved our Suburban Hero from a lifetime of in-store wandering.

Soccer Mom:
Why don’t you people put up warning signs? Even Superheros are only so strong……Oooh. Floral borders.

Anncr:
Tune in again next week, same time, same station for another exciting episode of….SUBURBAN MAN!

The birth of Tommy Kaempfer

2007-10-16T00:03:00.000-07:00

I wrote the following piece when I returned home from the hospital after the birth of my oldest son Tommy, twelve years ago this week.

October 19, 1995

The phone rang at the office. It was the very pregnant Bridget on the line. “I’m not sure, but I think my water might have broken.”

Like any rational adult, I went into a sitcom panic. “What do you mean, you think your water might have broken? Isn’t that usually accompanied by a huge swoosh of water?”

After we both calmed down (although now that I mention it, Bridget was pretty calm) we decided to swing by the doctor’s office and have him check. It was his day off and he conducted the examination over the phone with another doctor. The fluid was checked under a microscope.

Bingo.

Like any rational adult, I called everyone I knew and said “We’re going to have a baby!”

Of course, reality set in when we got to the hospital. The woman in the room next to Bridget’s was in her second day of labor. Later in the night we heard a woman screaming in such excruciating pain that we thought it was a baby crying. I knew right then and there that my beautiful wife would be numbing the pain with drugs. The more, the merrier.

I’m pretty sure that my mother set some kind of speed record from Mt. Prospect to Chicago in the middle of the afternoon. Bridget called her sometime around 1PM, and she was in the waiting room by 2PM. Apparently we weren’t the only ones anticipating the birth of this child....Oma wanted to be there when her first grandchild was born. As it turned out, she wasn’t.

After sitting there for eight hours with very little progress I sent her home. That’s when all hell broke loose. Bridget had to be induced, and almost immediately she started feeling intense pain. My memory banks have catalogued this beautiful moment between the anesthesiologist and my wife. It went something like this....

Dr: So, you think you need something for the pain?
Br: Yes, yes, yes....oooooh.
Dr: OK, we’re going to have to ask the father to leave the room for a moment.
Br: Groan. Groan. Groan. Groan. Groan.

(Rick leaves the room, returns 1/2 hour later)

Br: Oh, thank you doctor, thank you. I just wanted to really, really, really, really thank you.

We both knew we were in the home stretch then. Well, at least I knew. I’m not sure if Bridget even knew where she was for the next few hours. Thank God. It was so great to see the transformation from the really unhappy Bridget to the really happy Bridget.

It was now 2AM. Time to start pushing. They called Dr. Sabbagha. He checked out the goods and decided that we still had some time, so Bridget kept on pushing while the doc took a little nap. Molly the nurse helped us push. She held one of Bridget’s legs and I held the other and we coached her through each push. About every third push Bridget’s leg slammed me right in the family jewels.

Then I saw it....

At first I wasn’t sure what it was, Molly had to fill me in. It was the baby’s head. The hair threw me off. I didn’t expect to see hair, I was expecting to see a perfectly shaped bald (Michael Jordan-esque) head. But there was no mistaking it...the time was near.

Molly went to get Dr. Sabbagha, and told us we could keep pushing if we wanted. BIG MISTAKE. With her first solo try, Bridget grunted hard, and poof - there was the head...all the way out. I’m not sure what I said, but I think it went something like this....

“STOP. STOP. STOP. Holy Bleep.”

Molly came back in, saw the head and said...”Oh my God, we better get Dr. Sabbagha.”

He barely had time to get his gloves on before the event. Just a few moments later, at 4:06 a.m. we had a bouncing baby boy.

We didn’t even know the name of the baby when I called Mom up around 4:45AM. We hadn’t allowed ourselves to really put a lot of thought into a boy’s name, it just didn’t seem possible that we would have a boy. Bridget's entire family at the time consisted of nothing but girls.

Naming a child is one of the most awesome responsibilities a person ever faces. Our momentous decision was made something like this....

Rick: We need to come up with a name.
Bridget: It’s a boy. I can’t believe it’s a boy.
Rick: I guess the name Grace Anne won’t work now.
Bridget: Well, what do you think?
Rick: Let's name him after our fathers.
Bridget: I'm not naming him Eckhard or Stanley.
Rick: Fine, then let’s name him after our Dad’s middle names. Peter Thomas or Thomas Peter?
Bridget: I don’t know, I’m getting stitched up right now.
Rick: OK. Thomas Peter.
Bridget: Fine.

Most of our friends and relatives heard about Tommy on the radio. As a matter of fact, in one of the earliest broadcasting debuts in history, Tommy was on the air when he was 2 hours old.

The following is a transcript of that telephone conversation that morning. The participants are John Landecker (center), sidekick Vicki Truax (the only female in the group picture), and proud papa Rick.

John: Oldies 104.3 WJMK, It's 12 minutes after 6:00 with John Records Landecker and Vicki Truax. The hotline...the private line...is ringing. Hello.

Rick: Hello.

John: Well?

Rick: I'm a papa.

(Loud cheering and whooping in the studio)

Vicki: A girl or a boy?

Rick: A boy.

Vicki: I KNEW IT!!! What's his name?

Rick: Thomas Peter.

Vicki: What time?

Rick: 4:06 a.m.

John: Wow. How's everybody doing?

Rick: Everyone is fine.

Vicki: Bridget is fine too? Is she exhausted?

Rick: Yup, she's holding Thomas right now.

John & Vicki: Awwwww.

Rick: 7 pounds, 3 ounces.

John & Vicki: Awwwww.

Rick: And I recorded the entire thing on Digital audio tape.

Vicki: You're kidding? She didn't make you turn it off?

Rick: No. I had it put in a nice place where it didn't get in anyone's way.

John: We've got Thomas' birth on tape.

Rick: Yup. And we got his first bath on tape too, and his first cry.

John: Something tells me we better get more tape. OK, here's his first eyelid opening. Better get that on tape. We're going through his first toll...let's get that on tape. Hey Rick, don't you just want to...

John, Vicki & Rick: Hug and kiss them all the time?

(That was something Vicki said so often about her daughter it was a running joke on the show)

Rick: He is so damn cute.

John & Vicki: Awwwwww.

Rick: Wait a second...is he crying? Hold on.

Sound: A tiny baby cry can be heard.

John: Is that him?

Rick: Yup. His on-air debut.

John: Wow!

Rick: He's got some lungs on him.

John: That kid sounds like he's two years old.

Rick: Yeah, he's got good pipes.

John: Does he want to come in and do a few record talkovers?

Vicki: How long is he?

Rick: 21 inches.

John: So what was it like?

Rick: It was so cool. It was just like the movie "Alien." The baby kind of popped out and looked around. Then he jumped up and sucked my eyes out...

John & Vicki: (Laughing)

John: Then Siguorney Weaver came in with some sort of a mechanical device. It was unbelievable.

Vicki: You guys. Is he all wrinkly. Does he have hair?

Rick: Yeah, he does have hair. That was the first thing we saw. I asked the nurse...ewww...what is that? That's his hair. Oh.

John: Did you get it on tape?

Rick: Of course. Uh, oh. I have to go. We need to take Bridget up to the recovery room.

Vicki: You're still in the delivery room?

Rick: Yeah.

Vicki: That's dedication.

John: How many calls have you made so far?

Rick: This is my second call. I called my mom first.

John: Wow. Well take care of everyone.

Rick: Thanks.

John & Vicki: Bye.

John: There they go. Dad Rick, Mom Bridget and now Thomas Kaempfer.

Vicki: I kind of liked the other name Rick was talking about before.

John: I don't think Bridget was ever going to agree to Ringo.

Paperwork

2007-10-09T00:01:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

This year we have three kids in three different schools.

You know what that means don’t you? That’s right. Three times the amount of paperwork.

How much paperwork do we get? We could build a life-sized paper replica of Chicago and still have enough paper left over to build a paper forest to house the thousands of shivering homeless squirrels.

How much paperwork do we get? The Library of Congress called us for storage advice.

How much paperwork do we get? We measure the weight of our recycle bins in increments of Luciano Pavarottis.

We’re literally swimming in paperwork. At my house, we have an in-ground swimming pool in the backyard and the kids and I go for a paperwork swim after dinner every night.

There aren’t enough hours in the day to read it all, and even though school has only been in session for a little more than a month, I feel like I’m helplessly and hopelessly behind.

That’s why I’m proposing a brand new approach.

I propose that America’s public schools institute a color paper coding system, much like our terrorist alerts: RED, ORANGE, YELLOW, GREEN, and WHITE. The color of the paper should match the importance of the paperwork.

For instance…

RED paper ALERT
If something absolutely must be read, it has to be printed on red paper. What would fit in this new RED category? Anything that requires the parent’s immediate attention (permission slips, disciplinary issues, announcements of unexpected school holidays, etc.). In fact, as an additional touch, write the most important part of the most important paperwork in ALL CAPS. Bold type and exclamation points would help too, but I don’t want to get greedy.

ORANGE paper ALERT
If something is simply suggested reading, like an update on what your child is doing at school, or information about special school events like “pajama day,” those memos must be printed on orange paper. Other ORANGE level paperwork includes lesser medical emergencies like "Your child has been exposed to strep throat, pink eye, and head lice." Each parent could read the orange paperwork based upon how good they are at parenting. The good parents can read it all, and the rest of us can sleep at night knowing that we only missed something “somewhat important.”

YELLOW paper ALERT
Any and all school clubs and activities like orchestra/chorus, boy scouts/girl scouts, chess club/intramural sports, PTA and the like should be printed on yellow paper. That way, if you or your children are involved in only one or two of these activities (or in a dream world, none of them), you can quickly skim and dispense.

GREEN paper ALERT
All school fundraisers need to go on green paper. We have a special circular file for those already, and the green color will just help us find them more easily.

WHITE paper
No need to use the colored paper in your classrooms. Eventually all of the classroom papers come to our Luciano-sized bins, and since you’ve already taken the time to grade them, we can just look at the grade (preferably written in bold red pen), pat ‘em on the head if they’ve done well, pat ‘em elsewhere if not, and dispense.

I know this isn’t a perfect system.

Teachers will probably argue that this system is more work for them, and I suppose that’s true. On the other hand, think of all the time you waste sending home second reminders to parents who missed the first one. The red paper should take care of that.

Administrators will probably argue that red, orange, yellow and green paper is more expensive than white paper. That may be true, but I know a Chinese distributor who promises his color paper is brighter and bolder than American paper, and cheaper too. (Just don’t lick it.)

I know I’m speaking on behalf of the majority of parents when I plead for your help.

Think how much easier your life would be if parents could spend a little less time reading paperwork, and a little more time actually guiding their children to become better citizens. Your students would be better behaved, more responsible, more attentive, and possibly even punctual.

Just send us a few "How to make your child a better citizen" tips on an orange piece of paper, and we’ll get right to work.

Funny Mom & Dad Videos

2007-10-02T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

A good friend of ours sent us a very funny video of a mother singing "The William Tell Overture" with "mom lyrics." I posted it on my daily blog on Friday, and it got a great response.

It also got yanked from YouTube because the copyright holder complained.

Sigh.

Oh well. Before it was yanked, I got lots of e-mails about it. My favorite responses came with other "mom" or "mr. mom" video recommendations. So, since last week's has been yanked, I decided to post these others. For instance, this one came from a reader named Anita. I thought it was pretty darn funny too...

And then a fellow Mr. Mom-type named Dan sent this song along. I'm not a country music fan, but this song hits pretty close to home...

This one came from a former listener of the Landecker show on WJMK named Phil. We used to play this one on the show. The video isn't much, but the song is very funny. It's called "The Man Song", and it's a good song about what it's really like to be a husband...

Got any others? Send me the links and I'll revisit this in a future column.

Anna Kaempfer

2007-09-25T14:37:00.001-07:00

My grandmother, Anna Kaempfer, died a few weeks ago. (That's her about ten years ago with my oldest son Tommy.) I wrote this eulogy for her funeral. I hope you don't mind if I share it with you.

Anna Kaempfer was my grandmother. My Oma.

And she lived 93 years.

A long life, through turbulent times, and in difficult circumstances

And those hard times did have an effect on Oma. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone tougher than her.

On the other hand, and my cousin Bob will attest to this—there were times over the years when the real Anna Kaempfer came out.

The whole expression on her face would change as she recounted the stories from her youth, from her days in Rumania. We only ever saw one actual picture from those days…a black and white photograph of the biggest “street” in town…

But Bob, and my sister Cindy, my brother Peter and I, all had vivid pictures of her beloved hometown in our minds from those stories she told. It was so obvious that everyone and everything she ever loved lived in that time, and in that place. She made it sound like heaven on earth.

She would smile. And she would laugh. And for those few moments, when that town came back to life before our eyes, we would see the real Anna Kaempfer.

These past few years as the Alzheimer’s began to take its toll, the memories began to fade, but her hometown never left her. The last time I visited her, just a few weeks ago, that’s where she was.

She told me so herself.

But she didn’t need to tell me. Because I saw it in her eyes when she played with my five-year-old son Sean, who absolutely loved to visit her. And I saw it in her smile.

She was home.

And, Oma, it’s a very short journey from heaven on earth, to where you’re going now. It’s just at the end of that black and white street.

The Birth of Sean Kaempfer

2007-09-18T00:04:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Tomorrow, September 19, 2007, my youngest son Sean turns five years old. (Photo: Sean, eighteen months)

When he was born, I was still the executive producer of the John Records Landecker show on WJMK Radio. Like we did with the birth of my two other sons (Tommy and Johnny), the John Landecker show followed the pregnancy on the air. I even recorded the actual birth on digital audio tape as it was happening, and then called into the radio program with a full report live from the hospital.

His brothers were both born early in the morning (Tommy at 4 AM, Johnny at 2 AM), but Bridget was in labor DURING the show for Sean. I called into the show every hour and gave updates, some of which are referenced in the transcript below. Sean was born less than hour after the show ended that day.

This is the transcript of the call the following morning, September 20, 2005. The show members at that time were John Landecker, Leslie Keiling, and Bonnie Greene.

John: Magic 104.3, 8:14, John Records Landecker along with Leslie Keiling, that's Sister Sledge "We are Family". Rick, our producer, are you there?

Rick: I'm here.

John: You're a brand new dad.

Rick: Yes I am.

John: Bridget are you there?

Bridget: Hello. I'm here.

John: Do you have a radio at the hospital?

Bridget: No. We had one down at labor and delivery, and we were listening. The anesthesiologist thought you were really funny.

Leslie: Oh great.

John: You mean when he called him "Shakes"?

Rick: And a heroin addict, I believe.

John: Ha! So, how long do they let you stay in the hospital these days after delivery?

Bridget: 48 hours, and I'm taking every last second of it.

John: Well you sound good.

Rick: She looks good too.

John: Do you feel good too?

Bridget: Yeah. And we got a little trooper here too.

Leslie: Is the trooper in there with you?

John: No hold on a second, we're not giving anything away here. OK, so Rick. So far you have Tommy...

Rick: He'll be seven next month.

John: And Johnny...

Rick: He's 4 1/2.

John: Now people want to know. Hit it, Vinnie.

(Music: Theme song from "My Three Sons")

John: It would be my three...

Rick: Sons.

John: How big was our boy?

Bridget: 7 pounds, 12 ounces.

John: How long was labor?

Bridget: I'm not exactly sure because when we got here I was already in labor.

Leslie: That's the best way isn't it?

Rick: It really wasn't that long. I think she only had to push about ten times.

Leslie: And then went to the prom.

(Everyone laughs)

John: Let's get to the tape. Now Rick, you taped this yourself?

Rick: I did.

John: Any problems?

Rick: None at all this time. I had the surgical gloves on, and was helping the doctor. I had a leg in one hand, and..

John: Now wait a second here. What leg were you hanging on to?

Rick: I was hanging on to one of Bridget's legs.

John: Oh. So let me get this straight. You're hanging on to Bridget's leg with one hand, and the microphone in the other hand?

Rick: No, I set the microphone down on the table.

John: Oh geez. I had an image in my head here...

Rick: I'm very talented.

(Everyone laughs)

Rick: I did test levels.

(Everyone laughs)

John: The first time you didn't even know the microphone was on, the third time you're testing levels.

Rick: Exactly.

John: OK, roll the tape.

Dr. Sabbagha: Hi, hi, there it is. Can you push a little more?

Bridget: Ugh

Dr. Sabbagha: Hi there. Push push.

Nurse: Hi pumpkin.

Dr. Sabbagha: God, you're beautiful. Say something, precious.

Rick: It's a purple baby. That's Johnny's favorite color.

Baby cries.

Dr. Sabbagha: There he goes.

Rick: It's a boy!

Bridget: It's a boy?!

Rick: My three sons. Good work!

John: Rick. Guess whose crying in the studio? Oh, look, I got two of 'em crying.

Leslie: That's so beautiful.

Rick: It was soooo cool. I really got to enjoy it this time.

John: (sarcastically) Oh, and I know how hard the whole birthing process is for you.

Bridget: I actually thought he was funny this time. He made me laugh.

Bonnie: Because you hated him the other two times, right?

Rick: She kicked me in the knutchkies the first time she was so mad at me.

Bridget: I did not.

Rick: You did too.

John: Oh come on now, you two. You just had a baby.

Rick: I'm actually really proud of her. You should see her. You'd never believe she just had a baby.

Leslie: How are the boys. Are they excited?

Rick: (long pause) Uh...no.

(Everyone laughs)

Bridget: Tommy was so excited for about ten seconds. He came running into the room, held the baby, and then...hey what's in this cabinet?

Rick: And Johnny didn't even want to hold the baby.

John: Oooooooh.

Bonnie: Johnny's the middle child now.

Rick: Yup. My mom asked Johnny yesterday how his day went, and he said...Um, let's see...I went to school...I played in the park...um...She asked, 'Did anything special happen?' and he answered..."No."

John: Oh well, that will be an on-going story.

Rick: We're going to all go to a White Sox game tonight and beat up a coach. (This was the day after the William Ligue story)

John: You were gloating all morning, weren't you?

Rick: Yes I was.

John: I told you! Cubs fans are gloating all over the city. So...the name of the child is...

Rick: Sean Harrison Kaempfer

(Baby noises in the background)

John: Is that him?

Bridget: Yup. I'll put the phone up to him.

(More baby noises)

Bonnie: He sounds like a puppy.

John: OK, Sean. That's Irish for John, right?

Bridget: Yes, technically it is. S-E-A-N.

John: Harrison, I've got to guess, is...

Rick: Let's just say it's not for Harrison Ford.

John: It's for George Harrison, isn't it?

Rick: Yes it is.

John: I knew it!

Rick: But I didn't pick Sean. That was Tommy's idea.

John: And Johnny wanted to name it...

Rick: Johnny abstained.

(Everyone laughs)

John: Johnny threw his headphones down and walked out of the Security Council meeting!

Rick: That's right.

John: Well congratulations everybody. We now have Sean's first on-air performance on tape too.

Bonnie: Are his eyes open yet?

Leslie: He's not a kitten for Pete's sake.

Rick: Blue eyes.

Bridget: He's kind of dozing right now.

Bonnie: Poke him. Wake him up.

Leslie: Isn't it good that Bonnie doesn't have children? Have you taken him out for a walk yet?

Rick: We've got newspaper all over the floor...

John: Bonnie, it's a baby.

Bonnie: Sorry...

John: Well thanks for procreating.

Rick: My pleasure.

John: I'll bet it was. And now we have the vasectomy next.

Rick: Yes we do.

Leslie: And then we'll hear Rick making baby noises.

(everyone laughs)

John: Sean Harrison Kaempfer. That's a cool name. You'll have to change your answering machine message you know.

Rick: I'll do that today.

John: Cause it says, Rick, Bridget, Tommy & Johnny can't come to the phone. Well thanks guys, and congratulations.

Rick: Bye.

Bridget: Bye.

Bonnie: Of course, it will be awhile before Sean can come to the phone.

Leslie: Whoa.

John: The next time we do anything with children, you don't talk.

Bonnie laughs.

The Nursing Home

2007-09-11T11:12:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

My middle son Johnny had just left for school, when I noticed the expression on his little brother Sean’s face. My four-year-old pre-schooler was sitting on the couch, gazing out the window at the sight of his nine year old brother disappearing from view. Sean’s hands were cupping his sad little cheeks.

“He’ll be back this afternoon,” I said.

“I know,” he answered.

I wasn’t used to seeing Sean sad. I knew I had to do something to snap him out of it.

“Want to go on a field trip?” I asked. “Just the two of us?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Where?”

“Anywhere you want,” I offered.

“Really? Anywhere?”

“Sure.”

“OK,” he said, his eyes lighting up. “Let’s go visit Uri-Oma.”

Uri-Oma is my grandmother, and Sean’s great-grandmother (“Uri-Oma” is German for “Great Grandmother”). She is 93 years old, has dementia and Alzheimer’s, doesn’t speak a word of English, and thinks she is living in the old country. The last five or six times I visited her in the nursing home, she had no idea who I was. I was depressed every time I left.

I figured I didn’t hear Sean correctly. I knew my mom dragged Sean along to the nursing home occasionally, but I didn’t know he liked it.

“You want to go to the nursing home?”

“Yes!” he said. He was totally excited about the possibility.

I hadn’t been to visit my grandmother in a few weeks, so I figured what the heck. I packed Sean in the car and drove over there. When we walked in the front door, the security guard smiled at my little boy.

“How many stickers do you want today?” he asked.

“Just two. One for me and one for Dad.”

Sean ran ahead as I signed the visitor’s log.

“C’mon Dad.”

I hurried to catch up to him. He ran to the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor like he owned the place. The elevator door opened on my grandmother’s floor and he ran ahead again.

“C’mon Dad.”

When we got to the dementia wing and Sean opened the door, it was like Norm arriving at Cheers bar. The nurses all said it at the same time.

“Sean!”

He waved at them happily, and then waved at the other residents there, nearly all of whom looked like they were receiving a puppy on Christmas morning.

When he found my grandmother, she was the most excited person on the floor. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Even before the Alzheimer’s kicked in, my grandmother was not exactly famous for her cheerful disposition. She was a tough old German woman, worn down by a lifetime of hardship. The only thing “warm and fuzzy” about her was her sweater.

And yet, there she was, leaning against a walker, smiling broadly at Sean.

“Look Uri-Oma,” he said. He stomped his feet on the ground, and his shoes lit up.

“Oooooh. Lichtie,” she said. That’s a cutesy German way of saying “light.” It would be like saying “Oh look—a little lightee.” I couldn’t believe my eyes and ears--my grandmother was talking baby-talk to my son.

“Do you know what she said?” I asked Sean.

He nodded. “She loves the shoes.”

Close enough. “Hi, Oma,” I said.

“Wer bischt du?” she asked me in her German dialect. It means “Who are you?”

I was just about to explain who I was, when Sean interrupted. “Look Uri-Oma,” he said. He pulled a little car out of his pocket.

“Oooooh,” she said.

“C’mon, Uri-Oma, let’s play,” he said, and ran ahead to a table. She shuffled after him with her walker about as fast as I’ve seen her move in five years.

“This should be good,” I thought to myself.

My grandmother sat at the table across from Sean and for the next fifteen minutes or so, they pushed the little car back and forth. Sean was talking to her the whole time, explaining the name of the car, telling her how fast it could go, and why it was so special to him. She was nodding and smiling the whole time. After the car game, Sean started doing somersaults on the floor in front of her. She clapped after each one.

For thirty minutes or so, I got a glimpse of what kind of a grandmother she might have been if her life hadn’t had been so hard, and difficult, and cruel. Those difficult years have melted away with her disease. I could tell with every smile.

And this time when we left the nursing home, for the first time ever, I wasn’t depressed.

A sad footnote: I wrote this column a few weeks ago. Last Wednesday my grandmother had a bad fall at the nursing home probably caused by a massive stroke. The doctors thought she wouldn't make it through the weekend, but as I write this now, she is still clinging to life.

The DMV

2007-09-04T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When the driver’s license renewal notice came in the mail a few weeks before my birthday, I groaned. Didn’t I just do that?

Not exactly. I hadn’t gone since 1998.

Nevertheless, I put it off until the day before my birthday. I had good reasons, too. The week before my birthday I got the biggest zit I’ve had since 1978. There was no way I was going to have that on my license picture for the next nine years. I decided to wait it out. That thing couldn’t last a whole week, could it?

Five days before my birthday I went to a Cubs game and sat in the sun all day. I was very careful about putting sunscreen everywhere…everywhere, that is, except my lips. The morning after the game, my lips looked like they had spent the night in a frying pan.

Now I had that big zit and fried lips. I couldn’t possibly go get my driver’s license picture taken looking like that. So I waited some more.

Two days before my birthday I was wrestling with my youngest son Sean, and he took a chunk out of my chin with his fingernails.

Now I had a big zit, fried lips, and a gaping wound. If you looked at my face quickly it looked like I had been in a bar fight.

But time had run out on me. I had no choice. I had to go the next day.

I dressed nicely hoping that nobody would notice my hideous facial disfigurement. I had practiced turning my head slightly, hoping that a quick turn would create a shadow of some kind, which would conceal the worst of my injuries.

Yup. All set. This was going to work.

I got my first surprise when I saw that there were only five people in line before me. Fantastic. This was going to be no problem. I got my second surprise when I went up to prepay and discovered that they didn’t take credit cards.

Darn.

When I returned from the closest ATM machine (a good ten minutes away), it was high noon, and the line of five people had been replaced by a line of fifty or more.

Darn.

I didn’t have any reading materials with me, either, so I sat in the only available seat and began waiting. I heard the first giggle of the guy sitting next to me about five minutes later. After that, the giggles arrived every minute or so. I had no idea what he was laughing about, but I had nothing else to do. I asked.

“Look around, man,” he said.

“What?” I asked. “The big crowd of people?”

“No, man, look around!”

I looked around again, expecting to see something hilarious. I couldn’t see anything at all. “Great,” I thought to myself, “watch me fail the vision test too.”

“I give up,” I finally said. “What is it?”

“This place is like a babe-quarium,” he said. “Look around. There are more hot chicks per capita in here than Fort Lauderdale.”

I looked around again, and my giggling next-seat neighbor was absolutely right. There were dozens of women dressed in their summer finest, hair done, makeup applied, looking their Saturday night best. I had been sitting there with absolutely nothing to do and hadn’t even noticed.

“Been married long?” he asked.

I nodded.

He elbowed me in the ribs, and then pointed to a very attractive woman two rows in front of us. “That’s my wife right there.”

“Really?” I asked.

He started laughing. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she will be.”

I was called up for my photo about fifteen minutes later. After I had received a new elbow to the ribs ten or fifteen times during my wait, I had completely forgotten about my plan to disguise my hideous facial deformities. When the picture was clicked, it all came back to me.

“Oh crap,” I said. “Can I take it again?”

“It looks fine,” the guy said, shaking his head. “Next.”

I went back to my seat and my giggling next-seat neighbor was gone. I noticed his future wife was gone too. They were both in the line of prospective photograph-ees. He had his hand up against the wall next to her, and was giving her the hard sell. She was struggling to keep a forced smile on her face.

“Kaempfer,” the photographer said. “Your license is ready.”

As soon as I saw the picture I exhaled. I forgot how small those pictures were. I couldn’t see anything: No zit, no fried lips, no gaping wound. But then again, I couldn't see the babe-quarium either. Maybe it's just that my eyes are shot.

A Perfect Storm

2007-08-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

It was the worst storm to hit my home town in more than 40 years.

We were lucky. We only lost our power for 48 hours and our phone service for 72 hours. We didn’t get flooded, and we didn’t lose any trees.

My mom’s house, about two miles south of us, was not nearly as lucky. Her 50-year-old maple tree snapped like a twig, shooting branches onto her roof, her phone lines, her fence, and her neighbor’s yard.

If you ever wanted to see the effects of a tornado-like windstorm, my mom’s neighborhood is like a living weather laboratory. As you drive down the east-west street and look down each of the north-south streets, you can see a perfect line of fallen trees, mid-block, block after block after block. It looks like God was playing tree dominoes.

Unfortunately for my mom, her house was also mid-block.

Her power went out (and is still out five days later), which caused the sump pumps to fail, and caused the basement to flood. By the time she could pump out the basement, the sewer system couldn’t handle all the water at once, and backed up into her toilets—which then flooded her first floor too.

It was a nasty mess. We spent most of the weekend there helping her clean up inside and outside her home.

And you know what? It was kind of fun.

A funny thing happens to a neighborhood when everyone doesn’t have power for several days. It brings out your sense of community.

After that first night of no power, one of her neighbors lent her an extra generator. My mom, in turn, let her other neighbor hook up their sump pump to the generator too, and soon all three of them were able to pump out their basements.

Once the generators had pumped out the basements, a neighbor hooked up a chainsaw to start chopping up the huge chunks of her tree. The branches had come down with such force, that some of them were buried a foot deep in her lawn. People from up and down the street showed up to help us pull the branches out of the ground, chop them up, and carry them across the street into the park (where the village told us to put the fallen trees).

Once we had cleared off the lawn, I climbed onto Mom’s roof with a hand saw and cut the branch that had fallen onto the roof into small enough pieces that could also be lifted and carried across the street.

It took the better part of five hours to clean everything up, but without the help of a dozen or so neighbors, we would still be at it five days later.

That was the fun part.

There’s a certain amount of comfort that comes from knowing that when the going gets tough, your neighbors will be there—just as they know that you will be there for them. It’s what makes it a neighborhood.

And it’s why I don’t worry so much about my widowed mother living by herself anymore.

She’s far from alone.

How Elvis turned me into the Snow Dome King

2007-08-14T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

This Thursday is the 30th anniversary of Elvis' death. This piece explains my close personal connection with the King.

It started out as a joke. My buddies and I went to Graceland in 1987 for the tenth anniversary of Elvis’ death just because we wanted to witness the spectacle. Let me tell you; it was memorable. We felt like we had inadvertently wandered into the capital city of Tackyland for the coronation of the King. As we passed black velvet Elvis portrait after black velvet Elvis portrait, a thought occurred to me. I wanted to bring home the tackiest memento I could find as a tribute to this amazing weekend.

When I saw a shelf full of $3 Elvis snow domes at the gift shop across the street from Graceland, I knew I had a winner. First of all, let’s face it, it was only three dollars. Secondly, the whole idea of honoring Elvis with a plastic water-and-fake-snow-filled dome seemed so profound. I had my own intellectual interpretation; the snow falling on his former home represents the chill the city of Memphis feels since he left us, and the snow falling on the Lisa Marie airplane represents the white light that awaited him as he “flew” up to his final destination.

That was the interpretation I planned on using when people asked me why I proudly displayed a Graceland snow dome in my home. I saw this plastic thing as nothing more than a conversation piece. How was I to know that it would become so much more than that? It was the beginning of a real problem; a sickness. From that moment on, whenever I traveled anywhere, I instinctively looked for a snow dome to commemorate my visit. I now own over a hundred snow domes from locations all over the world, and while I still mock them and come up with ridiculous kitschy reasons why a plastic water-and-fake-snow-filled dome is a perfect memento of a visit, I have to admit that I’ve grown to love these things.

In fact, I now effortlessly tick off my list of reasons to collect them.
=Affordability: The price is right. At most, a tourist snow dome will cost you five bucks. You’ll be hard pressed to find a better value for your collecting dollar.
=Convenience: There isn’t an airport in the world that doesn’t sell them. Your friends won’t even mind picking one up for you.
=Fun: Shake one and tell me it doesn’t bring a smile to your face. It’s fun for “kids” of all ages.
=Conversation: Since 1987 there hasn’t been a single visitor to my home that hasn’t asked me at least one question about my collection.

Frequently Asked Questions

What if you travel somewhere it never snows?
This was the first dilemma I faced when I began to expand my collection. I like to travel to warm destinations. Luckily, this is shockingly not a problem. Among the snow domes in my collection: Cayman Islands, Jamaica, Hawaii, Arizona, Acapulco, Cancun, Barbados, St. Kitts, Bermuda, and the Dominican Republic. To me, these are the crown jewels of my collection because the entire concept is so ridiculous.

What is your most prized snow dome?
My favorite has to be the Pope John Paul II snow dome. My brother picked it up for me when he visited the Vatican. Shake it and watch a submerged Pope get covered with snow inside a cheap plastic dome. It’s an obvious keepsake for Catholics.

Is this really a worldwide phenomenon?
I have snow domes from every continent on earth except Antarctica, the snowiest of the continents. In another ironic twist, the only location I have been completely unsuccessful finding one is China—where virtually all snow domes are made. Although I should note that I wasn’t the one who traveled to China; it was my sister-in-law. She might have just been too humiliated to purchase one. That happens occasionally.

Which one comes from the furthest location?
I would have to get out my atlas to check the actual mileage, but I have snow domes from Australia, New Zealand, Hong Kong and Tokyo.

What are your favorites from this country?
I personally cherish the snow domes from places that have no business producing snow domes. I have one from Iowa. It features cows. I have one from Harvard University. That just seems like an odd choice for Harvard, doesn’t it? I also like the snow domes that commemorate events. The one I bought in Richmond, Virginia commemorates the Civil War. The one I bought in Atlanta commemorates the 1996 Summer Olympics. Last but not least, I have a Las Vegas snow dome that doesn’t have any pizzazz at all. I just thought that was funny.

Do you have any local snow domes?
I have one from Chicago, one from Wrigley Field, one from Springfield, Illinois, one from Indiana, one from Detroit, two from Lake Geneva, and one from Wisconsin that is exactly the same as my Iowa snow dome. Apparently, they got a deal on the cow picture. Minnesota and Ohio, by the way, both feature the exact same duck.

Why don’t you have any fancy snow domes?
I know there are beautiful glass snow domes on the market, but those don’t really fit into my personal collection. I pride myself in the cheapness factor.

Do you have any cautionary tales?
Take it from a father of three boys; a child as young as two years of age can throw a snow dome up to fifteen feet. While a snow dome may cost only $5, it may cost a little more to go to Australia to buy it. And if you’re like me, and you have a three year old little darling who likes to watch a recently deceased Pope fly through the air, you may have to take drastic measures. My entire collection is currently in a box in the basement until the kids move out of the house.

That has a tendency to take the fun out of any collection.

The Behavior Board

2007-08-07T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I don't want to alarm anyone by being too positive, but this has actually been a pretty good summer for my family.

No broken bones.

Lots of quality time with the boys.

But most importantly, the number of fights in my house have decreased ten fold over the previous two summers. How have I achieved this miracle?

You may remember my solution for the constant fighting the past few years: The Fight Board. The Fight Board's modest goal was to have less than 50 fights for a summer. Unfortunately, this proved to be an unattainable goal. The best we did the last two years was 110 fights.

This year I decided not to bring back the fight board. I decided that the fight board had a few flaws. For one thing, Johnny was the one in the middle of every fight--so really I was punishing all three boys for the sins of one. For another thing, it was mainly a negative reinforcement tool...very short on incentives for positive behavior.

So this year, I adapted it slightly. The fight board was dismissed and replaced by the behavior board. I scanned it here so you could take a look at it.

The behavior board* works the same way as the fight board in one way. Bad behavior is still punished by receiving a mark on the board. This year, however, it wasn't only fighting that received a mark. This year, I expanded the infractions so that it affected each boy equally. Sean had become a whiner...he whined whenever he didn't get his way. Tommy had become an incredibly bad listener...I had to say the same thing to him up to ten times before he heard me. So, whining and bad listening were added to the sins that merited a mark on the behavior board.

That way I was working on all three boys, not just Johnny. But since Johnny's infractions are always more severe (and potentially injury-causing or life-threatening), I added a caveat to the fighting punishment.

This year if the boys could go an entire day without fighting, I promised to eliminate ten marks from the board. That, combined with the punishment (More than ten marks on the board at any time means they can't use any electronics in the house including computer, video games, television, iPod, etc), did the trick.

The fighting has almost completely stopped. Oh sure there was that one time when Johnny slammed Sean's head into the car door because he wanted to get in the car first (I'm sure Mario Andretti was the same way as a child), and there was that other time that Johnny punched Tommy after he lost a game of chess (I'm sure Bobby Fisher was the same way), but the incidents that used to be a daily occurance in the old fight board days have all but disappeared.

When Johnny gets that look in his eyes, I remind him that he is blowing his chance to get ten marks taken off the board. If this doesn't slow down the rampaging stallion, his brothers step in to talk sense to him. Johnny has learned to go in his room, close the door, and blow off steam without injuring someone.

Sean's whining has also gotten muuuuuuuuch better. If the number of marks on the board is anywhere near ten, all I have to do is point at the board when he starts whining, and the whining ends immediately. Tommy is even listening better...although let's face it, this is a handy tool, but it's not a miracle worker. He's probably not actually listening better, he just has more than one person telling him things now. His brothers make sure he does what he's supposed to do when Dad starts getting that "this is the fifth time I'm telling you" tone in my voice.

I'll take it.

It might not work for you, but the behavior board has made this the best summer of my stay-at-home-Dad career. And that's good enough for me.

*Sean is in charge of crossing off the ten marks on days they don't fight. As you can tell, he likes colorful markers.

Performance Food

2007-07-31T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Until recently, it’s been nearly impossible to find a restaurant that all three of my boys will enjoy.

Johnny loves pizza, but his brothers don’t. Sean & Johnny love German food (any kind of sausage), and Tommy won’t touch it. Tommy likes Mexican food, but his brothers can’t stand it. Johnny likes Chinese food, but his brothers scream at the mere mention of it. Sean and Johnny will tolerate (fried) seafood, but Tommy would rather eat dirt.

There are exactly two establishments on our list of restaurants acceptable to all three boys: McDonald’s and Burger King. (And yes, I realize it’s a stretch to call either one a restaurant). Even with these two, an argument is bound to ensue. Tommy & Johnny prefer Burger King. Sean prefers McDonald’s.

Needless to say, we don’t go out much.

So when Bridget told me she wanted to go out to dinner for her birthday this year, and she claimed to have a bold new plan to get the boys to eat at a respectable restaurant, I checked her temperature.

“So where do you want to go?” I asked.

“Benihana.”

“Japanese food?” I asked, picturing a scene to end all scenes.

“They’ll love it,” she said. “When those chefs start chopping the food and flipping it in the air, the boys will be enthralled.”

It sounded good, but I’ve been burned too many times with other “good” ideas. I sat through the painful dinner at the restaurant with the playground. (“Can I go play now? Can I go play now? Can I go play now?”). I spent $70 for the right to watch the boys hold their ears in front of untouched plates at the unbelievably loud Rainforest Café. I choked down the worst hamburger of all-time just so the boys could watch a little choo-choo train deliver the dinner they didn’t eat at the Choo-Choo diner. This sounded like another one of those “good” ideas.

But it was Bridget’s birthday, so I went along with it.

This time, Bridget was right. From the first moment the chef starting chopping and catching the food in his hat, the boys were on the edge of their seats. When the chef refused to continue the show unless the boys ate the meat in front of them, they dug right in.

“Is this shrimp?” Johnny asked.

I thought about lying, but I nodded instead.

“I love it!” he screamed.

That even got Tommy to taste it. I almost fell off my chair. By the end of the dinner, all three boys had eaten food they never would have touched, and all of them loved it.

The following week we were on our way to visit my brother in Michigan and the traffic in Chicago was terrible. Bridget suggested we get off the highway and grab some dinner in Greek Town.

Again, I paused.

“Greek food?” I asked.

“They’ll love it,” she said. “We can get them Saganaki.”

“I’m not eating that,” Tommy whined.

I raised my eyebrows at her, remembering the success we experienced at Benihana.

“OK,” I said. “Greek Town it is!”

The whining ended the second we walked into the restaurant. A waiter walked by, screamed “Oopa”, and set a plate of cheese on fire. The flame actually touched the ceiling of the dining room.

“WOW!” Tommy yelped.

That night, for the first time since we became parents, all five of us ordered real food at a real restaurant and ate a real meal like real people. No kids menu. No chicken fingers. No complaining.

See that light at the end of the tunnel there?

I’m starting to believe that I actually might get my life back some day.

Episode 7

2007-07-24T00:06:00.000-07:00

Anncr:
Faster than a lawyer behind an ambulance...More powerful than (the late) Donald Stevens in Rosemont...Able to leap from lawn care to charcoal grills in a single bound...

Voice #1:
Look—there—out on the drive,

Voice #2:
It’s a van,

Voice #3:
It’s a mini-van,

Anncr:
IT’S SUBURBAN MAN.
Disguised as Herb Jenkins, Village clerk, even his wife Marge doesn’t suspect his true identity. When a neighborhood crisis erupts, Herb goes to the nearest garage, dons his superhero safety goggles and ‘World’s Greatest Chef’ apron and becomes SUBURBAN MAN!

Marge (on the phone): OK, dear. Have a nice afternoon at the supermarket. (sfx: phone hanging up)

Herb: Did you tell Rita that the lemons are only a dime a piece?

Marge: Oh, heavens.

Herb: Did you remind her to clip out the coupon for the cottage cheese?

Marge: Oh dear.

Herb: Well, I suppose her Jewel card will help her save a few crucial pennies.

Marge: Heavens to Betsy! She doesn’t have a Jewel card, Herb. (Dramatic Music) There’s only one man, that can save her now, right Herb? (Sfx: running to door, door opening, door closing, etc.) Why, you’re not Herb. You’re Suburban Man.

Herb: That’s right, Marge. Now if you’ll kindly toss me the keys to your mini-van, I’ll go save Rita.

Marge: God Speed, Suburban Man.

Anncr: 15 minutes later at a supermarket in Bensenville.

Suburban Man: Thank Heavens I found you, Rita. I assumed you would have more than ten items, so this is the last checkout line I checked.

Rita: What are you doing here, Suburban Man?

Suburban Man: I’m here to stop a fellow consumer from being duped. See these hot dogs and this six pack of beer in your cart? Here, buy these generic products and you can save 45 cents. (sfx: dropping stuff in the cart)

Rita: Oh, I don’t know, Suburban Man. Harvey is pretty particular about his beer.

Suburban Man: Nonsense, dear sweet lady. And I’ve taken the liberty of getting you a handful of lemons and this carton of cottage cheese. (sfx: dropping all of the stuff in the cart) The lemons are only a dime a piece and look at this cottage cheese coupon. Forty two cents off.

Rita: But I’m not very fond of lemons.

Suburban Man: Did you hear me, woman! These are only 10 CENTS A PIECE!

Rita: You’re scaring me, Suburban Man.

Suburban Man: You won’t be scared at the savings you get from my Jewel card.

Anncr: Another Suburban crisis averted thanks to the diligent shopping of Suburban Man. Rita saved nearly three dollars with Suburban Man’s Jewel card and will get to enjoy a very reasonably priced carton of cottage cheese and a very thrifty mug of Generic beer.

Man in store: Hey! That lady has more than 10 items in her basket now.

Suburban Man: Back off, bub. Those lemons count as one item.

Man: Do not.

Suburban Man: Do to.

(Sfx: Two men getting into a fight)

Anncr:Tune in again next week, same time, same station, for another exciting episode of….SUBURBAN MAN!!

The Interactive Billboard

2007-07-17T00:02:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I am planning on sending the following e-mail to some people in my e-mail address book this week. I thought you might appreciate the way my children are rallying to their dad's side to help sell my book "$everance."

I've probably already told you about my satirical novel (“$everance”) that explains who and what really runs the media, but you’d be surprised how difficult it is to get the word out in the media about a book that exposes the truth about the media…

Some authors faced with such a seemingly insurmountable dilemma and an advertising budget of zero, might be deterred or overwhelmed. Not me.

I’ve created the world’s first truly interactive billboard.

I know this looks like a very fancy billboard, but it’s really just my three sons facing a blank wall, waiting for someone to walk by and look at it. When someone does, this amazing billboard “comes to life.”

The first boy turns around and says: “Severance is available at www.encpress.com”

The second boy turns around and says: “It’s only $16 if you order right now.”

And the third boy is supposed to turn around and say, "That's a heck of a deal for a "hysterical critique of corporate morality" that is "told with the keen insight of an industry insider", and is, take your pick: "laugh out loud funny", "yeah, that funny", "brilliant satire", "great, funny, sarcastic, and thought-provoking" or "whiplash-fast choke-on-your-coffee funny"."

(All actual quotes from actual reviews. See them all here: Praise for $everance)

Unfortunately, he's only 4, and he usually says "Dad, this is stupid."

I suppose I could try another way. I could ask people to help spread the word by forwarding this e-mail to people who may enjoy the book. Or I could ask people to suggest "$everance" for their book clubs. Or I could just ask people to help rescue these children from the humiliating experience by spending a measly $16 right now by clicking here (www.encpress.com)

Or.... the boy could learn his lines and deliver them with feeling. What are they teaching these kids in pre-school these days?

Maybe we'll see you this summer. The boys and I will be traveling around the country looking for blank walls that are just screaming for an interactive billboard. With any luck, I'll sell enough books to allow them to go back to school in the fall.

If not, acquiring the salesmanship skills and street smarts this project will teach them will more than make up for what they miss in 6th grade, 4th grade, and pre-Kindergarten, respectively. Don't you think?

Annoying Dad

2007-07-10T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I get a fair amount of e-mails from readers, but I usually answer them one-on-one. The following e-mail, however, had to be shared in a public forum. My sons insisted.

Rick,
Your Suburban Man column about taking the boys to the city was precious. I hope they appreciate what a fun dad they have.
Mary

I printed out the e-mail and showed it to Tommy, and he couldn't believe it. He said: "Didn't she read my guest blog from last Father's Day?"

I'm guessing she didn't. He has graciously allowed me to reprint a portion of it here.

I’m going to give you my top five most annoying things about Dad.

5. Dad does this ‘short-term memory’ thing that drives me crazy. Once he thought I was my brother, Johnny. “Well, hello, Johnny.”
“Daaaad...”
“Johnny, cut it out.”
“Daaaaaaaaad, I’m TOMMY.”
“Don’t be silly.” I ran off to Johnny to show him.
“This is Johnny.”
“You’re getting weird, Johnny. That’s Tommy.”
I don’t EVER want that to happen again.

4. Og. I just can’t take this anymore. Once I told Dad that his jokes were twice as old as him. He took that as a challenge. The very next day, he gave me a smelly joke about Calvin Coolidge. “I guess Mr. Coolidge was a pretty calm guy,” I remarked after the joke. “That’s the point of the joke,” he replied. I heard quite a few VERY weird jokes that day. I haven’t really heard much of his ‘new material’ again.

3. This thing Dad has done for the last 10 (that’s how old I am, for your information) years has annoyed me for life. He says the lyrics of songs that I think s t i n k.

2. This is pretty much the same as 3, but he SINGS the songs instead.

1 (Tie). This has tortured me for a lifetime. First of all, when I don’t want to get up in the morning, he threatens to use the “Pinching Machine” or to tickle. The Pinching Machine is his own hands, of course. The Pinching Machine always will get me out of bed.

1 (Tie). Dad’s voices. The worst is his voice of Grover. We used to have a punishment system when he would hear me talking with Johnny at night. First warning, he would take away our teddy bears. A second time, there would be no Nintendo DS. Third, someone would go upstairs in Mom’s and his room. Fourth, (although impossible), Dad would sing all the songs on his iPod as Grover. I’ve hated the Grover (and technically, Yoda) voice since I was 4 or 5.

So now you know what makes me say “daaaaaaaaaad”. Here he comes right now. He says he ate my Nintendo for lunch. DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!

Then I showed Mary's e-mail to Johnny and Sean.

"Don't you think Mary is right?" I asked.

They laughed.

"Daaad," Johnny said. "You're annoying."

"Annoying how?" I asked. Johnny and Sean answered in rapid fire fashion, almost without breathing to pause.

"When you pitch, you throw it at my head."

"Stoink is not a word, Dad, and it's not my name."

"I hate your Goofy voice."

"You tackle and tickle and pinch"

"Your 'forever hugs' are annoying, when you say that you'll hug me so long that I'll have to bring you with me to school, and we'll still be hugging when I get married unless I say the passwords."

"And you change the passwords. That's no fair."

"Whoa," I said. "Hold it right there. That's totally unfair. There are only two passwords, and you know both of them."

Johnny said one of them: "Go Cubs."

And Sean rolled his eyes as he said the other one: "Dad looks so young."

Hmmm.

Does that answer your question, Mary? Let's just say that "Fun" and "Dad" are never uttered in the same sentence in my house.

Although...that could be the new password.

Field Trip Friday

2007-07-03T00:08:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

(Photos by Tommy Kaempfer)

Last summer we experimented with the concept of doing field trips every week to enjoy the culture of Chicago. It didn’t work out.

This year I scaled back the plans. No more museums (unless all three boys want to go), and no more full-day excursions (dad isn’t getting any younger).

So, with those new rules in mind, we dipped our toes back into the summer field trip waters.

The train

The boys were shocked when I agreed to take the train into the city. I always prefer driving because of the additional flexibility, but I could see they really wanted to do it, so I relented.

Unfortunately the train was packed, so we all had to sit in one double seat—and I feared this was a sign of things to come. Each boy wanted to sit by the window, and the whining had already commenced, when Tommy shocked me.

“Why don’t we take turns?” he suggested. “Each of us can have the seat for two train stops at a time, and then we rotate.”

Of course, Tommy had already looked at the train schedule, and figured out the number of stops. If he went first, he knew he would get the window twice, and the other two would only get it once. He looked at me, waiting for me to make it completely fair.

I didn’t drop a dime on him, and the other two never noticed.

Millennium Park

Our first stop was free—the beautiful Millennium Park along Lake Michigan. Sean (age 4) loved the big Crown fountain spewing water at unsuspecting tourists. He pranced and splashed in the water with a huge smile on his face. Tommy (age 11) loved it too. He snapped pictures and enjoyed the mist in the air taking the edge off a hot summer day.

Johnny (age 9) wasn’t impressed. He expected a park…with slides and monkey bars and see-saws. As soon as we arrived he started demanding that we explore the rest of the park, looking for the playground. I knew that Millennium Park didn’t have one, so I directed us toward the next best thing…the gigantic mirrored bean. It was a huge hit. We probably stayed there for thirty minutes, looking at it from every angle, taking pictures, and looking at the strange reflections. We would still be there if Sean’s tummy didn’t start talking to him.

“I’m hungry, Dad, I’m hungry.”

McDonald’s

We had walked by a McDonald’s on our way from the train station to Millennium Park, so the boys all wanted to eat lunch there. Normally, I just say no to that question out of reflex. Not today…today we ingested the grease and liked it.

In the middle of lunch two construction workers sat down at the table next to us. They took off their helmets to expose their bandana-covered heads. Sean nearly leapt out of his seat with excitement.

“Dad!” he yelped. “LOOK! PIRATES!”

Sears Tower

Despite having lived in Chicago for most of my life, I don’t think I had ever been to the Observation Deck at the Sears Tower. So, when Johnny suggested we go there, and I could see that it was just few blocks away, I shocked all three boys with my answer.

“Sure,” I said. “What the heck.”

I gulped when I saw the prices ($9.50 for kids, $12 for adults), but I had already said yes, so I bit my tongue and shelled out the $40+. Tommy looked at my facial expression while I was paying and said: “Dad, you won’t regret this. It will be worth it, I promise.”

I began to agree with him when they showed us a movie about the history of the Sears Tower, and all three boys were captivated. And I definitely agreed with him when I saw all three boys bounding toward the windows of the observation deck, mouths agape. Granted, my heart almost stopped when Sean smashed into the window, but those windows proved to be 4-year-old-proof.

Tommy even took this amazing photo of our first stop of the day: Millennium Park.

Back Home Again

When we returned home around 3:30, after another crowded train ride, something truly amazing happened.

Each of them, one by one, thanked me for taking them on such a wonderful field trip. Nobody had prompted or nagged them to do it either.

I guess you know what that means.

Field Trip Friday is here to stay.

Episode 6

2007-06-26T00:03:00.000-07:00

Anncr:
Faster than a lawyer behind an ambulance...More powerful than (the late) Donald Stevens in Rosemont...Able to leap from lawn care to charcoal grills in a single bound...

Voice #1:
Look—there—out on the drive,

Voice #2:
It’s a van,

Voice #3:
It’s a mini-van,

Anncr:
IT’S SUBURBAN MAN.
Disguised as Herb Jenkins, Village clerk, even his wife Marge doesn’t suspect his true identity. When a neighborhood crisis erupts, Herb goes to the nearest garage, dons his superhero safety goggles and ‘World’s Greatest Chef’ apron and becomes SUBURBAN MAN!

Marge (on the phone):You know how college kids are, Mabel. A little headstrong. He’ll be fine. Bye, dear.

(Sfx: Hanging up the phone)

Herb: What did Josh do now?

Marge: Oh Mabel thinks he’ll lose his security deposit because he didn’t….(DRAMATIC MUSIC starts, then abruptly stops) Herb where are you going?

Herb: Uh….Nowhere Marge. Finish your thought.

Marge: He didn’t spackle his…(DRAMATIC MUSIC) .Herb? Herb! Come back here. (Sfx: door opens, closes, etc) Why you’re not Herb, you’re SUBURBAN MAN.

Suburban Man: Did I hear the word Spackle?

Marge: My word, Suburban Man. You are amazing!

Suburban Man: Toss me the keys to your minivan, Marge. I’ve got a security deposit to save.

Anncr: 2 hours and 25 minutes later at a Champaign Urbana off-campus apartment….

(SFX: Knock Knock, Door opens)

Josh: Suburban Man? What are you doing down here?

Suburban Man: Let me see those walls before you move out.

Josh: It’s not a big deal, Suburban Man.

Suburban Man: I’ll be the judge of what’s a big deal, Josh. Hmmmm. Look at these holes. Haven’t you ever heard of spackle, son.

Josh (resignedly sighs): I guess we gotta go to the hardware store, huh?

Suburban Man: Nonsense. Where’s your resourcefulness, young man? A little toothpaste applied to these holes will fill them up nicely.

Josh: But Suburban Man…

Suburban Man (forcefully): HAND ME YOUR TOOTHPASTE, BOY.

Anncr: Another crisis resolved by Suburban Man. With no charge to Josh or his mother Mabel, Suburban Man filled in every single hole in the wall.

Josh: I think you’re supposed to use toothpaste not gel, Suburban Man. See those blue dots?

Suburban Man: Don’t be silly. This is Aquafresh. It whitens as it cleans.

Anncr:
Tune in again next week, same time, same station for another exciting episode of…..SUBURBAN MAN!

Fathers Day and Mary Ann Childers

2007-06-12T00:02:00.000-07:00

Father's Day is this Sunday, and this year it happens to fall on my wife Bridget's 40th birthday. I think it's safe to say that we won't be celebrating Father's Day in my house. I really don't mind. Father's Day has always been a bittersweet holiday for me anyway, as I explained last year in the following piece. I hope you don't mind if I rerun it this year.

By Rick Kaempfer

I would like to take this opportunity to thank someone who often comes to mind when I think of my own father: Mary Ann Childers.

Why do I think of the local Chicago news anchor when I think of my Dad?

It's a very odd story. I was the producer of the Steve and Garry show on WLUP, and we did a very special Christmas show one year--a full reading of the stage version of "A Christmas Carol" starring many local celebrities.

Among the celebrities present that day: Mary Ann Childers.

I don't remember what part Mary Ann played, but I remember that I cornered her backstage and asked her to do me a big favor. I told her that my father had a thing for her. He didn't say it was time to watch the news--he said it was time to watch Mary Ann. I asked if she would mind sending me an autographed picture of herself for Dad.

She seemed very flattered, but I really didn't expect her to do it. I figured she was a busy person and this was such a low priority that she probably wouldn't get around to it. That's probably why I was blown away when she sent me her promo picture with a personal note to my Dad saying... "It was a pleasure working with your son, Rick." The picture itself says "To Eckhard--Warmest Wishes for Christmas 1988. Mary Ann Childers."

I'll never forget how excited Dad was when he opened my present to him on Christmas Eve that year. I captured it on film...

Dad died six months later at the age of 54.

After he died I went to his office to clean out his things, and there she was, right in the middle of his desk: Mary Ann Childers. His co-workers told me that he joked with them about this picture all the time, saying that Mary Ann was his secret girlfriend.

Sunday is Father's Day. It's always a rough weekend for me. For the first twenty five years of my life, Father's Day weekend was a tribute to Dad. (And not just because it was Father's Day--it was his birthday too.) So, even now--seventeen years later, I struggle to enjoy Father's Day. I can't help thinking of Dad--and how much I miss him.

That's where Mary Ann Childers helps out.

When I don't want my sadness to ruin Father's Day for my kids, all I have to do is think of Mary Ann Childers. I remember how excited Dad was to get this picture from his "girlfriend," and it never fails to bring a smile to my face.

I've seen Mary Ann Childers a few times since Dad died--and I re-thanked her each time. Somehow I still don't think that's enough, so I'll say it again.

Thank You, Mary Ann.

One small gesture from you gave my Dad six months of enjoyment...and gave me seventeen years of comfort.

I'll never be able to repay you for that.

Bad, Bad, Pre-school Dad

2007-06-05T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I have some good points as a father. For the most part, my kids respond very well to my slightly unusual parenting techniques. I use a combination of "rub some dirt in it" tough love, a "don't take yourself too seriously" sense of fun, and a "I'm always here for you" style of communicating. I don't know if this approach would work with girls, but it works pretty well with my boys.

On the other hand, they are also incredibly aware of my weaknesses. (And I have many). When they're sick, for instance, they go to Mom. When they need something to be fixed, they go to Mom. And most of all, when they need to do a craft for school, they go to Mom.

I've previously written about my hatred of crafts. (I hate crafts) I hated them when I was their age, and I hate them now. I mean, I really, really hate them.

In pre-school it's customary for the parent who drops the children off to come in and help out during the monthly parties (Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc). These parties combined my two least favorite things: Kid parties and crafts. It sounded like torture, so I never volunteered.

On the last day of school, the parents were all invited into the classroom to watch the kids sing a few songs they had learned. That's when I realized that I was approaching this all wrong.

I realized it when I watched the pre-school moms taking pictures and filming their kids while I had completely forgotten my camera. I realized it when the other kids started handing year-end presents to the teacher, while I had completely forgotten that was the custom. I also realized it when I saw how excited Sean was to see me in the classroom. He didn't care about the camera or the present, he was just happy I was there.

After that eye-opening moment, I penned the following song, to the tune of "Bad Bad Leroy Brown"...

In the suburbs of Chicago,
The pre-school moms are mad,
So don’t say a word,
Or ask if they’ve heard
Of the man called Pre-school Dad

Now Pre-school Dad’s so crabby,
Says “Hey man, I don’t do crafts,”
And on the last day of school, this Pre-school fool,
Forgot to take photographs,

And he’s bad, bad, Preschool Dad,
The baddest dad that the preschool’s had,
Construction paper hates him too,
He’s even hated by the stick of glue.

At pick-up time at pre-school,
The pre-school moms all chat,
But Preschool Dad, in a baseball hat,
He don’t get involved with that,
He don’t plan no kiddie birthdays,
He don’t volunteer in class,
Forgot the teacher’s gift, finally got the drift,
Realized he was an ass,

And he’s bad, bad, Preschool Dad,
The baddest Dad that the preschool’s had,
Construction paper hates him too,
He’s even hated by the stick of glue

By the way, I did send the teachers a gift in the mail (accompanied by a hand-made craft from Sean).

Next year is Sean's last year of pre-school. It's not too late to repent.

Ode to a City Mom

2007-05-29T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

This is Kim Strickland.

When we met each other in college more than *cough* twenty five years ago, we had no idea that we'd still be friends well into our 40s. At the time Kim was anchoring the afternoon news on my WPGU-Urbana radio show. We became pretty good friends during our time at the radio station, and started hanging out together.

We somehow managed to stay in touch in the years since we graduated, even though we followed such different career paths. Kim went on to become a pilot for United Airlines, and I went on to become a radio host and producer. Even though we saw each other several times a year for more than twenty years, neither of us had any idea that both of us had the same hidden secret: We wanted to be writers.

We know it now. In fact, now we're living eerily parallel lives.

Both of us got married and had kids. Both of us write humor columns about the challenges of raising boys (she has two, I have three). My column is called "Suburban Man" and her column is called "City Mom."

And now, in the strangest twist of fate, both of our debut novels are being released within a few weeks of each other. My novel "Severance" was released a few weeks ago (which you know all too well because it has been shamelessly and relentlessly hyped on this blog).

Kim's novel "Wish Club" is being released today, and I would be remiss if I didn't give it a big plug.

I've read it, and I think it's fabulous. Don't take my word for it, though. Read what these other authors are saying about it...

“Wish Club is a magical delight–a fun, witty read. I hope to see more from Kim Strickland!”
–Candace Havens, author of Charmed and Dangerous

Ever wanted something … more from your life? Then you'll want to get to know the women in Wish Club. Whether you're wishing for a man (or a better one), a baby, a more meaningful career, or simply more time to yourself, you'll find the women in this book relatable, realistic, and refreshing. With a surprising twist that makes you wonder, Wish Club is an engrossing, entertaining read about women and the importance–and power–of female relationships.
–Kelly James-Enger, author of Did you Get The Vibe? and White Bikini Panties

"A truly enchanting read! I was bespelled by Wish Club from the first page to the last. Kim Strickland is simply magic!"
–Tate Hallaway author of Dead Sexy

“Strickland weaves a heartwarming tale of friendship, love and magic–she hits all the right notes with Wish Club.”
–Cara Lockwood, author of I Do (But I Don't)

Kim is the real deal, and I'm positive that "Wish Club" will be a huge success. If you want to meet her, and you live in the Chicago, she'll be at the Borders at Clark and Diversey on Tuesday June 5th at 7:30pm, and Transitions Bookplace at North and Sheffield on Tuesday June 26th at 7:30.

I'm hoping to make it out there for one or both of those events. Hope to see you there.

In the meantime, buy Kim's book. I know you shouldn't judge a book by it's cover, but whoever said that, never saw how cool her cover is...

By the way, if you want to read more of Kim's writing, she has been a guest blogger for me several times. It seems like a fitting way to end this Ode to a City Mom. I know you'll love her guest blogging contributions as much as I did...
"City Mom" (debut column)
"Education Mom"
"Mother's Day"
"Al's"
"Time Sinks"
"Parking"

21st Century Road Trips

2007-05-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

"21st Century Roadtrips"

By Rick Kaempfer

I have a family of five. When it comes time for vacation, flying is no longer a realistic option. Until last year, I managed to maintain my sanity by confining all of our trips to the four nearest states.

Last year, however, we were invited to visit my aunt and uncle in Georgia.

“You know that means a 14-hour drive in the car, right?” I asked my pleading, begging children.

“Yes!”

“And you won’t complain and whine and give me a 14-hour headache?” I asked.

“No!” they all promised.

I was weak. I consented.

Expert Advice

I called up Spike Manton to get his opinion on the subject. Spike co-wrote a very touching play about the traditional family road rip called “Leaving Iowa.” It’s a subject he has studied for years.

I asked him if this was going to be the nightmare I remembered from the family vacations of my youth.

“Seatbelts have changed everything,” he answered. “From 1945 until 1980, the only thing that changed for the family vacation was the size of the paneling on the station wagon. Today’s kids will never know the insanity of hanging out the back window throwing fruit at the trucker behind you, and then climbing over three seats to ride on Dad’s lap to help him steer, all while traveling 65 mph down the highway. How can you have a real fight in the back seat if you are strapped in place like a hostage?”

“What about technology?” I asked.

“That too,” he said. “DVD players and Gameboys have forever replaced Slug Bug, the License Plate Game, and the Alphabet Game,” he said. “My nephews once arrived at my home at the end of a 16-hour road trip, and stayed in the car for an extra twenty minutes to finish a game on their Gameboy.”

That sounded like the solution for me. Seatbelts and technology were going to save me.

Hitting the Road

I wasn’t thinking about road trips when I opted not to take the DVD option on my minivan a few years ago. Whoops.

Luckily for me, they make portable players now, so I bought one with a big enough monitor for all three kids to see, and placed it in the best viewing location.

Among the other items packed into the minivan for this trip:
*Ten movies
*Three handheld video games (Gameboy DS)
*Three sets of headphones so Dad doesn’t have to hear anything
*A cooler full of drinks and food
*A backpack full of toys, books, and games for each boy
*My sister

I really thought we had everything covered.

We had three boys (ages 10, 7, & 3), and three adults. We had entertainment and food. We left at 3:00 in the morning so that they could sleep for the first three hours.

What could go wrong, right?

The successes

The biggest successes were thanks to two of the items we brought along with us: the DVD player and the headphones.

I highly recommend both of them.

The boys watched two Pokemon movies (which normally would have made my skin crawl), but I didn’t have to hear a thing except for an occasional laugh accompanied by a euphoric “OH MEOWTH! YOU CRACK ME UP!”

That was four hours of bliss.

The mistakes

Mistake #1: The 3:00 AM departure time

This sounded like such a good idea. Unfortunately, the boys were so excited about vacation they didn’t sleep a wink. My three-year-old’s eyes were wide open the whole time. By 9:00 AM, I was the only one who wanted to sleep, and I was driving.

Mistake #2: Most toys/games/activities/books can cause carsickness

Somewhere in the middle of rural Georgia, I looked in the rearview mirror at my unbelievably pale eight-year-old. He was holding his stomach.

“Do you feel OK?” I asked.

“No,” he told me.

My wife sprinted into the backseat with a plastic baggie—but she was moments too late for the first gush. We pulled off at the next exit and added thirty minutes to our trip by cleaning off the seat and his pants, and finding something else for him to wear.

Mistake #3: Not realizing that even potty-trained 3- year-olds won’t “go” at public bathrooms.

On the way home we had to stop for gas about three hours away from home. All three boys were ordered to take care of business at the gas station. The two older boys did as they were told, but the youngster took one look at the bathroom and declared that he didn’t need to.

“Are you absolutely sure?” I asked.

“I’m sure, Dad,” he said.

I gambled that he was telling the truth. We were about an hour away from home when Sean’s stomach pains made him start crying out.

“I have to poop!” he said.

His painful cries let us know there was no way he could make it all the way home, so I pulled off the highway as soon as I could. The only semi-appropriate place near the exit was a Walgreen’s Pharmacy. When my wife and son finally emerged from Walgreen’s twenty minutes later, her annoyed expression told me the whole story.

“He promises he can make it home,” she said through gritted teeth.

“No he can’t,” I said.

“I know,” she conceded. She held up a pull-up diaper. “What do you think?”

It was our only choice. For the next thirty minutes we tried to tune out the grunting, groaning, whining, moaning child determined to prove he could make it home. When his natural cheerfulness suddenly returned, we knew the problem had passed.

Back Home

When we pulled into the driveway, I heaved a sigh of relief. I know it sounds like it was horrible, but I don’t look at it that way. We survived. I consider any trip that involves only one vomit and one #2 emergency a rousing success.

I may even do it again someday.

When I drive my oldest son to college.

(This piece originally appeared in the the May 2007 issue of SHORE Magazine)

MySpace

2007-05-15T00:04:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Ever since I announced that my book was coming out, people have been asking me if I have a page on MySpace to promote it. My answer has always been the same: “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

After hearing the question one too many times, however, I started thinking that I was being a snob. How bad could it be? Plus, wouldn’t it be ironic to use Rupert Murdoch’s latest multi-billion dollar purchase to promote a book that satirizes media consolidation?

So, I gave in. Last week I went on MySpace to set up a page.

Now you’d think that someone who could handle all of these blogs would have no difficulty at all with the technical requirements of MySpace, but that’s where you would be wrong. Google does a magnificent job of making these blogs user friendly and easy to handle. MySpace, on the other hand, goes out of its way to make the entire process as difficult as possible.

For instance, in their Frequently Asked Questions tab, they answer the question “How do you change the backgrounds?” this way:

“Anyone who has a basic working knowledge of HTML should be able to help out. Why don’t you look for friends on MySpace to help?”

That's not an answer! You might as well post a picture of Rupert Murdoch extending his middle finger.

I should have bailed out right then and there, but I couldn’t figure out how to delete the entire page, so I labored on. I examined the templates of my blogs, looked for the HTML code that might apply, and against all odds managed to cut and paste enough HTML code to insert a few pictures, a few links, and a video.

After fiddling with it a little, it didn’t even look terrible.

That’s when I ran into the creepiest part of MySpace. If I had known that this next step was the whole point of doing this, I wouldn’t have done it all. Apparently the whole idea of MySpace is to get as many “friends” as you possibly can. You literally have to ask people to be your friends. It just seems so pathetic.

I went through my list of actual friends and came up nearly empty. We’re old. We don’t “MySpace.” If you’re my age, and you’re on MySpace, you’re either a pedophile cruising for underage youngsters, or you work in the media. Luckily, many of my friends still work in the media, so I went on their pages and asked them to be my friends. I rationalized this behavior by telling myself that I hadn’t ever officially asked them to be my friends in real life, so what the heck?

I clicked the button: “Add me to your list of friends.”

Only 17 responded.

About two dozen more of them either don’t want to be my friend anymore because of some unknown slight (and if that’s the case then screw them because who the hell do they think they are treating me that way after all I’ve done for them?)…or, more likely, they don’t bother checking to see who wants to be their friends, and let’s be honest here…that’s not very friendly either.

Someone (sniff) might take that a little personally.

Now I was faced with a real conundrum. What if someone went to my MySpace page and saw that I only had seventeen friends? Seventeen.

“LOSER!”

So I went into panic mode. Think, Kaempfer, think! You must know some young people. I went through my memory banks trying to remember 20-somethings that I know. I could only come up with two: my cousins. They were both shocked to see me on MySpace. Shocked. But they charitably added me anyway.

Now I had a total of 19 friends. Nineteen.

“LOSER!”

I literally couldn’t think of a single name to insert in the search function. As fate would have it, CNN was on in the background, and they were talking about the 2008 presidential race. Seeing this as a sign, I inserted the name Barack Obama.

You may know him for his years in the Senate, or his campaign for the Presidency, but to me, he’ll always be my twentiethfriend. Likewise, I’m sure he will always consider me his 153,498th friend on his 3835th page of friends. Either that, or the friend pictured next to Gerard the donkey.

Sigh.

The next day I read the story about Obama retaking his MySpace page from a mere fan. It turns out I wasn't added by Obama at all...just an Obama fan.

Sigh.

I wasn’t a happy camper. The next time I checked my e-mail, however, I suddenly had offers from a dozen more people asking me to be their friends. I excitedly clicked on their pictures to see who they were.

All of them were scantily clad females more than twenty years younger than me—and I may be out of line for saying this—but my guess is that Kayla and Portia and Bambi are not really looking to be my friend. Even so, I still felt guilty rejecting them. It just sounded so harsh. I had to click on a button that said: I DENY YOU THE RIGHT TO BE MY FRIEND!

I’ve never done that to anyone in my life. Well, at least not since that kid on the school bus who flicked me with his finger every time he walked by. Kayla, Portia, and Bambi never did anything to cause red welts on my forehead, and yet, here I was…publicly rejecting them just because they’re a front for a porno company looking for creepy 43-year-old married guys.

Sigh.

Anyway, this is my long, drawn-out, and more than slightly pathetic way of asking if you’re interested in helping an old guy crack the triple-digit mark of “friends” at http://www.myspace.com/rickkaempfer . I sure would appreciate it. I promise I’ll be your friend too…

Unless you’re a scantily clad 20-something woman.

Please forgive me, Portia, Kayla and Bambi.

Mother's Day Rap

2007-05-08T00:03:00.000-07:00

Premature Jubilation

2007-05-01T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

My first novel, $everance, went to press yesterday. At the age of 43, I'm finally achieving my lifelong dream of becoming a published novelist.

How does it feel?

Well, I've discovered that the process of becoming a published novelist is really a series of premature celebrations. By my most recent count, I've celebrated the end of the process eleven times already-and my book isn't even out yet.

All of the following celebrations turned out to be a tad premature:

1. I celebrated when I figured out a way to weave my complicated plot together. I just knew it was all downhill from there. This book was going to write itself.

2. I celebrated when I finished my first draft. Six solid months of working on the manuscript every day-it was certainly all but over.

3. I celebrated when I finished my second draft-which I considered to be perfect. I just knew that I wouldn't have to change another thing.

4. I celebrated when I found a publisher. Granted, the publisher required a few minor plot changes-but that wouldn't be a big problem. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.

5. I celebrated when I figured out how to implement her changes. All I had to do was rewrite the second half of the book. Surely that wasn't going to take too long. I knew these characters like the back of my hand. It was all but over.

6. I celebrated three months later when I finally finished writing the third draft. I clinked glasses with my wife right after I hit the send button on the email.

7. I celebrated again when my publisher emailed me a few weeks later, saying she was proud of me for pulling it off-and she was sending me a contract. That was it. It was all over.

8. I celebrated again after I signed the contract. Finally!

9. I celebrated again after she sent me the artwork for the cover. Now it seemed real. There, on a stylishly designed cover, was my name (with the more author-sounding first name "Richard," instead of "Rick") in big block letters. Clink!

10. I celebrated again after the editor sent me the final line-edits. This wasn't going to take long to whip into shape, and then we were ready to go.

11. I celebrated again when I finished those final edits, and got them approved. Okay, now it's time to break out that bottle of champagne we've been saving.

Of course, I still don't have a hard copy of the book. That will be premature celebration #12. I still haven't scheduled my book tour (#13). I still haven't seen my book on a bookshelf in a bookstore (#14), and I still haven't sold a single copy of my book, although I understand a few have been pre-ordered (#15).

I must admit that I feel a little more sheepish with each successive celebration, but I just can't help myself. I'm not just the boy who cried wolf-I'm the boy who cried wolf fifteen times . . . and counting.

When the true moment of celebration comes, my friends and family will think it's another false alarm, and I'll probably have to celebrate alone.

If you really think about it, though, wouldn't that be the most appropriate celebration of all? Writing is, after all, a totally solitary experience. Shouldn't someone who works by himself, celebrate by himself? If you look at it that way, my first solitary celebration will be my first truly appropriate celebration.

Which, of course, calls for a celebration.

Don't worry. I plan on checking into rehab as soon as the book tour ends.

This article first appeared in Shore Magazine (www.visitshoremagazine.com)

Suburban Man: Episode 4

2007-04-24T00:03:00.000-07:00

Anncr:
Faster than a lawyer behind an ambulance...More powerful than (the late) Donald Stevens in Rosemont...Able to leap from lawn care to charcoal grills in a single bound...

Voice #1:
Look—there—out on the drive,

Voice #2:
It’s a van,

Voice #3:
It’s a mini-van,

Anncr:
IT’S SUBURBAN MAN.
Disguised as Herb Jenkins, Village clerk, even his wife Marge doesn’t suspect his true identity. When a neighborhood crisis erupts, Herb goes to the nearest garage, dons his superhero safety goggles and ‘World’s Greatest Chef’ apron and becomes SUBURBAN MAN!

Marge:
How's your pot pie, Herb? I was feeling a little daring, so I added extra peas…and carrots and stuck it right inside that Swanson’s pie…

(SFX: Low beep)

Herb:
Do you hear that?

Marge:
Herb, I think that's the neighbor's smoke alarm. (SFX: Whoosh door opens and closes) Herb? (SFX:garage door opens and closes in the distance) Herb? Where did you go? HERB!!!!!

Anncr:
Like a shot, our hero races to the garage and emerges as SUBURBAN MAN. He dashes through his neighbor's gate…latches it behind himself so the dog doesn't get out…and bounds to the back door!

(SFX: Door knocking with low beep. Door opens. Beep volume increases )

Fran:
Something wrong, Suburban man?

Suburban Man:
I’m here to help, Fran. (SFX: Runs to sink, runs water) Why don't you place this moistened hand towel over your head as a precaution, and be ready to head out to your family's designated meeting spot. Fire can spread in an instant.

Fran:
Oh! The smoke alarm. Sorry 'bout that. The darn thing goes off every time I use the broiler. Remember? That's what I told you last time. Here, let me just pull the battery.

Suburban Man:
Heaven's no! A smoke detector without a battery is like a bird without wings. Let me just wave my apron vigorously.

(SFX: beep stops)

Suburban Man:
There.

(SFX: beeping starts again)

Suburban Man(flapping away):
Darn thing.

Fran:
Stop it, Suburban Man. You’ll wear yourself out. (SFX: beep) Let me just turn off the broiler. (SFX: beep stops). There that did it.

Suburban Man:
Well, it certainly did.

Fran:
I guess you’re work is done here.

Suburban Man:
Guess so.

Fran:
But yet, you’re still here.

Suburban Man:
Are those Reuben sandwiches I smell?

Anncr:
Another suburban dilemma handled handily by the handy hands of Suburban Man.

Marge:
Herb, where have you been? Is that sauerkraut on your lips?

Anncr:
Tune in again next week, same time, same station, for another scintillating episode of…Suburban Man!

Seperate Bedrooms?

2007-04-17T00:03:00.001-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

When I first saw the New York Times article about the latest trend, separate bedrooms for married couples, I scoffed. I don’t personally know anyone who has taken that drastic step, so I thought it was just one of those non-existent trend trends.

I didn’t really think about it again until I retired for the night.

Hmmm.

My wife and I are totally compatible in everyday life. We almost never argue. My weaknesses are overcome by her strengths. Her weaknesses are overcome by my strengths. Together we can take care of our children and our home with minimal muss and fuss.

On the other hand, we’re not sleep compatible at all.

Bridget falls asleep in seconds. It’s really incredible. If we could figure out a way to bottle and sell that, we’d make a fortune. Her head hits the pillow, and whammo! She’s out cold. I toss and turn—sometimes for hours and hours.

Bridget can shut down her mind at bedtime with a snap of her fingers. I prefer spending every night torturing myself for all the things I haven’t accomplished that day.

Bridget likes her flat sheet tucked in at the end, trapping her in a tucked-in-sheet jail. I don’t see the need for an extra layer of sheets at all, and when I’m trapped in the sheet jail, my legs feel compelled to break out.

Bridget likes it warm and cozy—she could sleep inside a furnace if she were wearing flame retardant pajamas. I like it ice cold. I could asleep outside in the middle of winter if someone would invent a nose warmer.

Bridget likes her mattress firm—Marine style. You could bounce a quarter on her perfect mattress. I like to be enveloped in a soft mattress—so soft that it’s impossible to get out of the bed without doing sit-ups. It’s the only exercise I get.

Bridget is a sleep Nazi. She needs a good night of sleep and will do absolutely anything to make sure she gets it—including going to bed at 7 PM if necessary. I’m a sleep freak. I like to stay up ridiculously late in my nice quiet house, enjoying the silence and solitude.

When I get to bed, everything has to be just so. My pillow has to be the perfect temperature. If I don’t fall asleep before it gets warm, I won’t fall asleep. My blanket has to be perfect. If I can’t completely wrap myself up in my blanket, I won’t fall asleep. If I’m not exhausted or in the perfect environment, I might as well not even go to bed.

See what I mean about not exactly being sleep-compatible?

We’ve used separate blankets since our second or third year of marriage. We have a king-sized bed, but it’s really two double beds pushed together, so we essentially have separate beds too. We might as well be Rob and Laurie Petrie from the Dick Van Dyke Show.

Separate blankets, separate sheets, separate beds.

It occurred to me while I was tossing and turning the night after reading that New York Times article that while we don’t technically have separate bedrooms, we’ve come as close to that concept as possible.

As a matter of fact, when I worked in radio, which I did for the first twelve years of our marriage, I slept on the couch more often than I slept in bed (I didn’t want to wake up Bridget at the ridiculous hour of 2:30 AM). For those twelve years, five nights a week, we actually did have separate bedrooms.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s why get along so well. She’s well rested enough to avoid crabbiness, and I’m too tired to be crabby.

It was probably the secret to Rob and Laura Petrie’s marriage too.

VS Day

2007-04-10T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Editor's note: This spring's early warm weather, followed by unseasonably cold weather, killed my tulips. I never thought I would fondly recall last year's battle with the fluffy-tailed rat...but alas, I do. Hence, the encore presentation.

Last fall I went to the florist with my three year old son Sean. I’ve always wanted some tulips in my flower garden, so I let Sean pick out a half-dozen colors, and we went to the register to pay.

“Be careful with these,” the woman at the register said.

“Why?

“Squirrels love them,” she said. “You can’t even leave the slightest tulip bulb residue in your garden because they’ll dig up the whole garden until they find the bulbs.”

I eyed her suspiciously. It sounded a bit extreme. “What do you mean by tulip bulb residue?” I asked.

A tulip bulb looks a little bit like an onion, complete with a paper-like peeling. She pulled off a tiny piece of the peeling, and crumbled it into even tinier pieces, then held out a microscopic piece of that crumble at the end of her finger.

“C’mon!” I said.

“I’m serious,” she said.

That advice just sounded so ridiculous, I didn’t give it a second thought. Sean and I went home, and after giving great thought to the color scheme, we inserted the bulbs into freshly dug holes and covered them with dirt. We went inside and sat by the front window trying to imagine how great those tulips were going to look. I couldn’t wait until spring.

My bliss was disturbed only moments later by a little rat with a cute fluffy tail. Disregarding my feelings entirely, he hopped right into the garden and started digging. I pounded on the window. He didn’t scare easily, but I finally got him away. When Fluffy was safely gone, I went outside to see what had attracted him to the garden in the first place. Sure enough, just like the florist had warned me, a tiny tulip bulb peeling rested at the edge of the garden like a flashing neon welcome sign.

I had to get to Fluffy before he put the word out. All witnesses had to be eliminated. I saw him in the nearby bush and charged at him like a wild boar. I was screaming at the top of my lungs like a Yoko Ono record, trying to be so menacing and intimidating that he would let squirrels know far and wide that this garden was strictly off-limits. Only a crazed fool would dare try to eat one of those delectable bulbs. Not with Yoko the charging boar ready to attack at any given moment.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t quite pull it off. Fluffy just stared at me for a few moments before calmly running about ten feet away. I didn’t stop charging until he ran another twenty feet or so. He wasn’t scared of me (or Yoko) in the slightest. He ran onto my neighbor’s driveway and held his ground.

I realized that this technique wouldn’t suffice. I had to take further action. If I couldn’t kill the squirrel or scare it away, I had to make my yard so unpleasant that he wouldn’t come back. I researched on the internet about the best ways to do this, and the first suggestion sounded like genius to me. Squirrels mark their territory like many other animals. If they smell the...um...markings of another, they will stay away. I could do that. I could produce markings. I did it successfully in the backyard to keep the skunks away a few years earlier.

But this time marking my territory was a little more difficult. Did I mention this garden is in my front yard? The direct approach was out of the question. (I didn’t feel like going to jail.) So I re-created a typical doctor’s office visit and “produced” a sample into a plastic cup. I then went outside and nonchalantly spread the sample around the garden.

About ten minutes later the squirrel returned. This time, instead of hopping right into the garden, he walked back and forth a few times. He seemed genuinely repulsed. Sean and I were elated and started celebrating, but Fluffy killed the self congratulatory celebration mid-high-five when he hopped right back into the garden and starting digging again. I had to run outside and do the wild boar-Yoko routine until he ran away, but I knew I was just buying myself a few minutes.

Now down one perfectly good plastic cup, I went back on the internet. The same website gave me another idea. It said to sprinkle red cayenne pepper all over the bulbs. The squirrels will still dig them up, but they won’t eat them. It was worth a try. Sean really enjoyed the digging up process, and I even let him sprinkle the red pepper on the bulbs. We went back to our station at the front window and watched. It only took a few minutes for the relentless Fluffy to return to his prey. This time Sean and I let him dig. Fluffy got the bulb out of the ground and started carrying it away to his lair, when he suddenly dropped it on the sidewalk in front of my house, and ran away. Apparently the undamaged bulb was not to his liking.

For the next few days, we went through the same process. Squirrel digs up bulb, squirrel drops bulb, Rick and Sean re-bury bulb. One morning there were a dozen bulbs on the driveway. But we never faltered, never gave up. Each time we calmly reburied the pepper-laced tulip bulbs. We knew we could outlast him. We were more resilient than Fluffy. Our life expectancy was more than 20 times his life expectancy. We were bigger, stronger, and smarter. He was just a squirrel and we have opposable thumbs. He was no match for us.

But here’s the thing about tulips. Your gratification is delayed for months. It wasn’t until last week when I saw the green sprouts emerge from the ground that I realized we had officially won the battle.

“Victory!” I screamed. I looked around for the sneezing squirrel. “Take that Fluffy! In your little face!”

Next time I’ll listen to the florist.

Take Me out to the Ballgame

2007-04-03T00:03:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I always thought Opening Day was going to be huge for my family. After all, I have three boys, and what is more important to boys than sports?

In my Norman Rockwell-ized father-son world, I pictured the four of us spending our time in the backyard tossing the ball around, getting psyched up for the big game. I pictured myself teaching them the fine art of throwing a change-up, or getting down for a grounder, or maybe even switch-hitting. At the very least, I figured we would end up watching the game together on television.

Yesterday I experienced my twelfth opening day as a father—and once again I watched the game by myself.

It all started with my oldest son. Tommy is more of an intellectual than an athlete. Despite the fact that I took him to his first Cubs game when he was a mere baby (and he’s gone to one every single year since then—11 years), he was adamantly opposed to playing organized baseball. After much pushing and prodding, he finally agreed to at least try soccer. It didn’t take me long to realize that wasn’t such a great idea, either.

I can tell you the exact moment I realized this. He had just come out of the soccer game—moments after a ball literally went right by him without a glimmer of recognition on his part—when he asked me this very illuminating question.

“Why is Elvis so popular in Hawaii?” he wondered.

It seemed pretty clear that his head wasn’t exactly in the game. After he came out of the next game, he pointed to the sky and asked me where the Earth’s atmosphere ended, and where outer space began.

OK, so Tommy wasn’t going to be participating in organized sports. I could live with that. I focused on turning that intellectual curiosity into the subtleties of watching and following baseball. We talked about batting averages, and ERA, and various other baseball statistics. I bought baseball cards for him and taught him how to keep score at the Cubs game.

There might have even been a flicker or two of interest at Wrigley. For instance, I distinctly remember with pride a moment when he pointed out “an HBP,” but for the most part, he couldn’t be less interested.

I’ve had a little more success with Johnny. Johnny has played both baseball and soccer, but he obviously preferred soccer. I could accept that baseball moved a little too slow for a kid with so much energy, so I went with his preference.

“What do you like most about soccer?” I asked him.

“The snacks,” he responded.

Johnny also likes going to Wrigley Field, but he obviously doesn’t pay attention to what is happening on the field. I was trying to figure out why he had a big smile on his face after the painful loss we experienced together last season.

“What did you like about the Cubs game?” I asked him.

“The popcorn,” he said.

It’s not exactly Norman Rockwell, but I’ll take what I can get.

Which brings me to my third son, Sean.

Of the three, there’s little question that Sean has the most athletic ability. He’s already hitting the ball without a tee. He pounds his bat on the plate, adjusts his stance, and screams at the pitcher (me) to “BRING IT ON!”

He’s also a bit of a handful, which is why I haven’t brought him to a Cubs game yet. This year (April 17th), we’ll be going to our first game together.

Experience tells me not to expect too much, but maybe, just maybe, I’ve done it right this third time. I haven’t pushed any sports on him, and he’s developed an interest naturally by watching his older brother Johnny. I haven’t shoved the Cubs down his throat like I did with Tommy or Johnny, but he’s still excited about going to the game.

By April 18th, I’ll have a good idea whether or not Opening Day will remain a solitary experience for me.

Norman Rockwell…this is your last chance.

Suburban Man: Episode Three

2007-03-27T00:05:00.000-07:00

Anncr:
Faster than a lawyer behind an ambulance...More powerful than Donald Stevens in Rosemont...Able to leap from lawn care to charcoal grills in a single bound...

Voice #1:
Look—there—out on the drive,

Voice #2:
It’s a van,

Voice #3:
It’s a mini-van,

Anncr:
IT’S SUBURBAN MAN.
Disguised as Herb Jenkins, Village clerk, even his wife Marge doesn’t suspect his true identity. When a neighborhood crisis erupts, Herb goes to the nearest garage, dons his superhero safety goggles and ‘World’s Greatest Chef’ apron and becomes SUBURBAN MAN!

Marge (on the phone):
We always use Ray’s plumbing, Doris. Are you sure? Alright then. Good luck, dear.

(sfx: click/phone hanging up)

Herb:
Major plumbing problem at the Nicholsons?

Marge:
No, they just have a drippy faucet.

Herb:
And they’re calling a plumber?

Marge:
Doris’ husband Chuck isn’t too handy.

Herb:
Funny, I haven’t noticed a money tree in his backyard. He must be growing money over there to throw away $75 on a drippy faucet.

Marge:
They need help, Herb. If only Suburban Man knew about this. (Sfx: Whoosh door opens and closes) Herb? (Sfx: Whoosh door opens and closes) You’re not Herb! My prayers have been answered. You’re….

Suburban Man:
That’s right, Marge. I’m Suburban Man. Now if you’ll kindly toss me the keys to your mini-van, I’ll go save the Nicholsons.

Marge:
Bless you, Suburban Man.

Anncr:
About fifteen minutes later at a Tinley Park home.

(Sfx: Door knocking. Door opening)

Doris:
Ray’s plumbing?

Suburban Man:
I cancelled the plumber, Doris. You can’t pay a man $75 to do a 2 minute job. It’s just not right. I’m Suburban Man.

Doris (hysterical):
But my husband can’t fix the faucet, Suburban Man.

Suburban Man:
Let me see this dripping faucet, Doris.

Doris:
It’s in here…

(Sfx: Drip drip drip drip drip)

Suburban Man:
Where’s your husband’s tool box?

Doris:
We keep all of our tools in this Marshall Fields box.

(Sfx: shaking tools in a box)

Suburban Man:
(Long painful sigh) Dear Sweet Doris. You better keep my beeper number handy at all times. Now kindly step aside and I’ll have your faucet fixed in a jiffy.

Doris:
Bless your handy hands, Suburban Man.

Suburban Man (struggling):
All….you….have….to….do…is….tighten….this….

(Sfx: Water shooting up to the sky)

Doris:
Is it supposed to do that?

Suburban Man:
Of course. Now you can call that plumber. Make him earn that $75.

Anncr:
Another suburban crisis resolved by Suburban man. Not only did he instill the virtue of hard work into the plumber, he nipped an unseen problem in the bud…

(Sfx: water still shooting up in the sky)

Suburban Man:
I noticed you didn’t have any humidifiers. This water will take care of that static electricity problem.

Doris:
Bless you, Suburban Man!

Anncr:
Tune in again next week, same time, same station for another exciting episode of…..SUBURBAN MAN!

The Sweetest Words in the English Language

2007-03-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

By Rick Kaempfer

They may not sound so sweet to you, but I think the sweetest words in the English language are “Yes, Dad.”

Until recently, I don’t think I had heard the words “Yes” and “Dad” in the same sentence for over a year.

My oldest son Tommy hasn’t said it since the late 90s. In fact, I think he’s eliminated the word “Yes” from his vocabulary completely. My youngest son Sean has probably said it, but only because his vocabulary is still limited and he never stops speaking. The law of averages says that eventually those two words could have ended up in the same sentence. If they did, however, it was purely accidental.

On the other hand, my middle son Johnny recently reintroduced this phrase into his everyday lexicon, and he is reaping the rewards.

“Johnny, please take your plate to the kitchen,” I said.

“Yes, Dad,” he replied.

I’m not kidding. He really said it. At first I was too stunned to speak. I thought he might be sick, so I checked his temperature. Nope. He was healthy.

“Do you know what you just said?” I asked.

“What?”

“You just said ‘Yes, Dad,” I pointed out.

“I know,” he told me.

After that, he started saying it more. The following week I had to check my own pulse to see if I hadn’t somehow died and gone to heaven during the following exchange. He and Tommy had just come home from school.

“Let’s get crackin’ on the homework,” I said.

“Yes, Dad,” Johnny replied. He took his books out of his backpack, sat down at the dining room table, and started doing his homework.

Seriously. Just like that. The first time I asked! No complaining. No whining. No hiding in his room hoping I would forget it was time to do homework. Just “Yes, Dad.”

Only his brother’s usual whining and complaining made me realize that I hadn’t actually gone to heaven.

I thought that the homework “Yes Dad” moment was the pinnacle, but that moment still hadn’t arrived. It arrived the following day. When he finished his homework without complaint after school (again!), I let him play on his Nintendo DS. This is something I usually don’t allow because it gets ugly when I try to get him to turn it off.

He had barely begun playing, when I finished cooking dinner. I knew it was hopeless, but I called up to his room anyway.

“Johnny, dinner’s ready. C’mon down!” I yelled.

I knew I would have to call up there at least three more times before getting really angry and storming up to the room. This was the normal routine. I would yell. He would pretend he didn’t hear. I would yell again. He would pretend he didn’t hear again. Then I would storm up to his room, demanding he turn it off, screaming “didn’t you hear me the first three times I called up here?”

This time it was different. Before I could even make it back to the kitchen, I heard the words from upstairs.

“Yes, Dad,” he said.

I tried not to get excited. I reminded myself that he was probably just muttering the words while Mario spun around the racetrack in MarioCart. He probably didn’t even hear what I was saying—he was just saying ‘Yes Dad’ out of reflex, hoping it would buy him some time. I figured it would still be another twenty minutes before he came downstairs for dinner. The force of the videogame was the strongest force in the universe—it couldn’t be broken that easily.

But I was wrong. He was standing right next to me.

“What’s for dinner, Dad?”

“Johnny?”

“Yes, Dad.”

I was stunned. “Um, will you help me set the table?”

“Yes, Dad.”

And he did!

His brothers, ol’ Whats-his-name and Whose-it, haven’t even noticed this dramatic turnaround in Johnny. They haven’t noticed that Johnny’s plate gets more food, or that I let him stay up later, or that I call him “my dear, dear boy.”

Maybe they’ll notice the different treatment “Yes Dad” receives when they see I’ve moved all of the money from their college funds into Johnny’s.

“Want some money for college, boys?” I’ll ask.

“Yes, Dad,” they’ll reply.

“I knew you could say it,” I’ll say. “Sorry—too late.”

They should have discovered those magic words in 2007 when their brother Johnny did. Now if they’ll just help me carry Johnny’s throne into the living room, maybe it will occur to them before it’s too late.

The Birth of Johnny Kaempfer

2007-03-13T00:00:00.000-07:00

The date was March 12, 1998.

The headline on the Chicago Sun Times front page: “Cicero deal halts Rally by Klan”

The headline on the Chicago Tribune front page: “Clinton plans to join Ulster peace talks”

The headline on the Daily Herald front page: “Clinton refuses to say whether he will testify to grand jury”

The headline on the New York Times front page: “The World of Paula Jones”

But the biggest story was happening in Mt. Prospect, and only one reporter was on hand to break the story....Me. I called into the John Landecker show that morning to report the news flash. The cast of characters included John Landecker, sidekick Catherine Johns, and newsman Richard Cantu.

The following is a transcript of that important phone call.

John: Oldies 104.3, John Records Landecker, it’s 8:27, and joining us on the phone from the maternity ward is the producer of the program, Rick the German Boy Kaempfer. Good morning, Rick.

Rick: Good morning.

John: Rick, tell us what’s going on.

Rick: Well as long as we’re plugging our kids (John had just plugged his daughter’s play), I’ve got a new one to plug.

John: Aaaawwwwright!

Rick: Last night around eleven thirty Bridget’s water broke and we didn’t even have time to make it to the hospital downtown, so we went to the one out here.

Catherine: Oh, is that right?

Rick: And we have a new baby boy!

(Cheering and clapping in the studio)

Richard: Whoo Hooo! Congratulations. Two knucklehead boys!

Rick: And it’s a big one too.

Catherine: How big?

Rick: 8 pounds, 6 ounces.

Catherine: That is pretty big. How’s Bridget doing?

Rick: She’s doing real well. I’m at home now. I came home to check on Tommy...

John: Wait a doggone minute! You went home to check on your other child before you called the show? Where are your priorities?

Rick: Sorry, forgive me. I’m hopelessly out of whack.

John: OK, 8 pounds. How long was it?

Rick: 21 inches...if you know what I’m saying.

Catherine: We know what you’re saying.

John: No, how long was the baby?

Rick: Oh, the baby?

Richard: Once more into the gutter.

John: So what time was this kid born?

Rick: Two o’clock in the morning. They kicked me out of the hospital at 4:00, because Bridget has to share a room, and I came home and got a little sleep, and Tommy just woke me up, so I’m calling you right away.

John: So you’ve called all your family I hope.

Rick: Bridget called them.

John: But she had the baby.

Rick: Yeah, she had the baby in about two hours. It wasn’t that bad, although that’s easy for me to say. She was fine, what a trooper.

Catherine: And she wanted to chat, right?

Rick: Exactly.

Catherine: Now I want to know something. Does this child have a name?

Rick: Oh yes he does. His name is John Richard Kaempfer.

John: Wow.

Richard: You honor us, Sir.

John: Was he named after anyone?

Rick: Well, my favorite Beatle is John.

John: John Lennon.

Rick: And of course, my favorite DJ....

John: Really?

Rick: Yup. John Brandmeier.

(Everyone laughs)

John: OK, you got me.

(Call waiting clicks)

Rick: And actually John is also a name in Bridget’s family. Her grandfather was named John. And so is her brother.

(Call waiting clicks again)

John: I see you got baby waiting there.

Rick: Yeah, I think I may be popular today.

John: Well, we’ll let you go. Congratulations on the big news! So you’ll be back to work tomorrow, right?

Rick: Uh...well...

Catherine: John!

John: Just kidding, just kidding.

Rick: See you later.

John: There he goes. Proud papa.

(Click)

John: Oh wait! Darnit! I forgot to ask him if he taped it.

Richard: Are you kidding? Of course he did.

John: Because if there was ever a disc jockey who knows how to exploit a child, it’s....

2 year old Tommy Kaempfer singing the jingle: John Records Landecker, Oldies 104.3.

The Evil Genius

2007-03-06T00:02:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

Being the little brother to two older brothers is a tough gig. If the little brother has a big taunting mouth, it’s much much worse. Every day becomes a life and death struggle.

Meet my youngest son Sean: He’s cute. He’s smart. And he’s lucky he’s alive.

Sean figured out about a year ago that no matter what he said or did, his brothers were never going to like him, or treat him well. So, instead of trying to win their favor, he went the other direction. Without succumbing to emotion or histrionics, he pursues his life goal with dogged determination: To make his brothers as miserable as possible.

On purpose.

As punishment for not liking him.

If it weren’t my house and my sons, I would find this battle incredibly entertaining. The battle begins first thing in the morning, every single morning. He usually gives them one chance. It goes a little bit like this:

Sean: Johnny, will you play with me?

Johnny: Get away from me Sean.

Sean: It’s OK, Johnny. You don’t have to play with me. I’m going up to your room to kill your favorite toy.

Johnny: DAAAAAAAD!

And that’s when I’m in the room watching.

God only knows what he says when I’m not there. He knows that Johnny (age 9) has a hair-trigger temper, and can’t let anything go, so he taunts him mercilessly.

Sean: Johnny, will you play with me?

Johnny: Get away from me Sean.

Sean: Your head is purple and when your head is purple you have to play with me forever. It’s a rule.

Johnny: That’s not a rule, and my head is not purple.

Sean: Yes it is.

Johnny: NO IT’S NOT PURPLE! YOU CAN’T MAKE RULES LIKE THAT!

If you were the adult walking into the room during this confrontation, who would you side with, the 4-year old seemingly talking nonsense, or the nine year old who is having a meltdown about the nonsense?

Sean is way too smart for his brothers. He can smell their weaknesses like a dog can smell fear. For instance, he also knows that Tommy has some quirky pet peeves, so he doesn’t waste time with anything less effective. He goes right for the throat.

It usually goes a little bit like this:

Sean: Tommy, will you play with me?

Tommy: Go away Sean.

Sean: You want my pickle?

Tommy: I hate pickles. Get that away from me.

Sean: Why? It’s only a pickle. See. Here it is, Tommy. A pickle. Look, it’s coming right at you. Can you smell it?

Tommy: AAAAAARGH! GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!!!!

Again—picture yourself breaking up this fight. Who is being unreasonable? The 11 year old boy screaming about a harmless pickle or the emotionless little 4-year-old innocently holding a pickle in the air? If you didn’t recognize the evil genius, you would side with the little guy every time.

It’s passive aggressive brilliance.

And it’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Every day as Tommy and Johnny are getting ready to walk out the door, Sean rushes up to give them a “big hug.” Does he do this because he loves his brothers? No, of course not. He does it because they hate him. He does it to rub it in their faces.

After they run screaming out of the house, Sean turns around and smiles. He smiles because he won again. He smiles because he’s playing them like a fiddle, and he knows it. They’re leaving the house screaming, and he’s home alone, with all their toys.

I must admit, I admire his mental toughness. They started this fight by rejecting his friendly overtures to play, and instead of rolling over and crying, he is fighting back. He can’t beat them physically (he knows this for a fact—they beat him up regularly), but he also knows they are no match for his evil genius.

The other day after Tommy and Johnny went running out of the house screaming, he came over to me and sat on my lap. He had a big smile on his face.

“We’re a team, Dad,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We’re a team, because Tommy & Johnny hate both of us,” he said.

“They don’t hate us,” I argued half-heartedly. “They really love us.”

“OK, Dad,” he said. Then, almost as afterthought, he added, “I have an idea for dinner tonight.”

“What?”

“Why don’t you do some of your cartoon voices for me?”

“Your brothers hate those voices,” I reminded him.

I could have added that the mere threat of doing my cartoon voices is enough to get them to do their homework, their chores, and anything else I ask, but of course, he knew that.

“They do?” he answered innocently, before flashing me that evil grin.

Wow, he’s good.

I always considered myself a bit of evil genius, but I’m no match for this kid. I’m going to have to keep a close eye on him. Within a few years he’s going to be eating me up and spitting me out without my even knowing it.

He smiled at me and gave me a big hug.

“I love you, Dad,” he said.

Uh oh.

Suburban Man, Episode 2

2007-02-27T00:07:00.000-08:00

Anncr:
Faster than a lawyer behind an ambulance...More powerful than Donald Stevens in Rosemont...Able to leap from lawn care to charcoal grills in a single bound...

Voice #1:
Look—there—out on the drive,

Voice #2:
It’s a van,

Voice #3:
It’s a mini-van,

Anncr:
IT’S SUBURBAN MAN.
Disguised as Herb Jenkins, Village clerk, even his wife Marge doesn’t suspect his true identity. When a neighborhood crisis erupts, Herb goes to the nearest garage, dons his superhero safety goggles and ‘World’s Greatest Chef’ apron and becomes SUBURBAN MAN!

Marge (on the phone)
Well you have a wonderful time, Gladys. Downtown is beautiful this time of year. God bless. (sfx: phone hanging up)

Herb:
Marge, is Gladys taking the train downtown tomorrow?

Marge:
No, Herb. She was on her way out the door. She’s driving.

Herb:
At 4:00 in the afternoon on a Friday?

Marge:
Oh Dear!

Herb:
Where is she going to park?

Marge:
Oh Dear.

Herb:
Call her and stop her.

Marge:
It’s too late. There’s only one man who can stop her now. If only Suburban man was here. (Sfx: Whoosh, door opens and closes) Herb? (Sfx: Whoosh door opens and closes) Why, you’re not Herb. You’re Suburban Man.

Suburban Man:
That’s right, Marge. If you lend me the keys to your mini-van, I’ll save Gladys.

Marge:
Bless you, Suburban Man!

Anncr:
30 minutes later at a busy Arlington Heights Intersection.

(Sfx: Cars honking. Traffic jam. Someone knocks on a car window, it rolls down electronically.)

Suburban Man:
Hello, Chet.

Chet:
Thank God it’s you, Suburban Man. The radio is reporting that some nutball has blocked the intersection with his mini-van.

Suburban Man:
No time for small talk, Chet. Gladys Finch is attempting to drive downtown right now.

Chet:
At 4 O’Clock in the afternoon on a Friday?

Suburban Man:
Have you seen her?

Chet:
She’s in the car behind me. Godspeed, Suburban Man.

(Sfx: Man walking, knocking on another car window, it rolls down electronically.)

Gladys:
Suburban Man?

Suburban Man:
Dear Lady, I’m afraid I’ going to have to ask you to return home at once.

Gladys:
Goodness Gracious, Suburban man. What’s wrong?

Suburban Man:
Do you have any idea how long it will take you to drive downtown at this hour?

Gladys:
Oh, I don’t know. It’s about 24 miles. I guess it will take thirty minutes or so.

Suburban Man:
Dear sweet Gladys. It could take you two hours during afternoon rush hour on a Friday afternoon.

Gladys:
My Word! Then it would be dark!

Suburban Man:
You don’t know what it’s like downtown after dark. Ruffians roaming the streets, selling stolen watches, preying on nice suburban ladies like yourself.

Gladys:
Bless you Suburban Man. I’ll go to Marshall Fields another time.

Anncr:
Thanks to Suburban Man Gladys Finch slept soundly on that Friday night in January. She went to Marshalls instead of Marshall Fields and saved a pretty penny.

Herb:
Do you have any idea what they charge for parking downtown, Gladys?

Gladys:
You have to PAY to park?

Anncr:
Join us again next week, same time, same station, for another exciting episode of…..SUBURBAN MAN!

Ah, remember Marshall Fields?

Next month's episode: "The Drippy Faucet"

The Suburban Oscars

2007-02-20T00:05:00.000-08:00

By Rick Kaempfer

I’ll be watching the Oscars just like everyone else this weekend. Unfortunately, for the third year in a row, I haven’t seen a single one of the nominated movies (other than those in the animated category). I’ll be watching strictly to see if either Martin Scorsese or Peter O’Toole becomes the Susan Lucci of the Academy Awards.

Because those of us with children tend to feel a little left out on Oscar-night (we don’t get out much), I’ve decided to create the Suburban Oscars.

To qualify for a Suburban Oscar, an actor or actress must have performed in a film that takes place in the suburbs. The film also cannot be a new release. Any film less than two years old is disqualified.

Winners of Suburban Oscars will receive a trophy and a suburban gift basket, but only if they fly me out to Los Angeles to hand-deliver it. (I will also accept a flight by the company that released the film.) Otherwise the trophies and gift baskets will be kept in a safe place for next year’s winners.

Without further ado, I now present the Suburban Oscars.

The nominees for most for “Most Precocious” performance by a child in a suburban-based film are…

Jonathon Lipnicki in “Jerry McGuire”
Peter Billingsley in “A Christmas Story”
McCauley Culkin in “Home Alone”
Drew Barrymore in “ET”
Heather O’Rourke in “Poltergeist”

And the Suburban Oscar goes to: This precious child

The nominees for “Best Teen Angst” performance in a suburban-based film are…

Sissy Spacek in “Carrie”
Toby McGuire in “American Beauty”
Mary Stuart Masterson in “Parenthood”
Ally Sheedy in “Breakfast Club”
Sean Penn in “Fast Times at Ridgemont High”

And the Suburban Oscar goes to: Really?

The nominees for “Best Rich Teen Angst” performance in a suburban-based film are…

Tom Cruise in “Risky Business”
Matthew Broderick in “Ferris Buehler’s Day Off”
Timothy Hutton in “Ordinary People”
James Dean in “Rebel without a Cause”
Dustin Hoffman in “The Graduate”

And the Suburban Oscar goes to: Him

(You’re welcome, ladies.)

And last, but not least, the nominees for “Best Teen Time Travel Performance” in a suburban-based film are…

Michael J. Fox in “Back to the Future”
Keanu Reeves in “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure”
Kathleen Turner in “Peggy Sue Got Married”
Krispin Glover in “Back to the Future”
Alex Winter in “Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure”

And the Suburban Oscar goes to:You know it's not Kathleen Turner

Congratulations to all of our winners.

Each of you can have your people contact me at the “E-mail Me” link on this page. When you plan my accommodations for delivery of the award, please keep in mind that I have three kids, so I’ll need five airline tickets, and at least two hotel rooms. We’ll handle all other incidentals, including mini-bar.

(By the way, the real winner for “Best Rich Teen Angst” would have been him, but he’s not able to fly me to Los Angeles at the moment.)

Next year, come on back for our second annual Suburban Oscars, when we'll honor more performances you've actually seen. If you have any suggested nominees for "Best Suburban Mom" or "Best Suburban Dad" performances, feel free to send them in to Suburban Oscar headquarters.

In the meantime, enjoy the real Academy Awards this weekend.

I have to rememeber not to go to the bathroom during the "In Memorium" segment this year. The Anna Nicole Smith tribute is going to be heartbreaking.

Suburban Man

Father Knows Nothing

Oh Stewardess, I speak Pokemon

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

Self Sufficiency

The Problem Fixer

Second Thoughts

Wake Up Call

Welcome to Broadcasting, kid

Wait til your father gets home

Anticipation

The Most Ridiculous Fight Ever

Hats

Extending your life

An Old Soul

Pink Eye

More Evidence of Global Warming

Vacation Surprise

Guest Columnist: Bridget Kaempfer

Fight Board

Bad Dad

Take Me Out to the T-Ball Game

Career Planning

Mother's Day Recital

Mother's Day Rap

That tone of voice

Confession Time

Blue Velvet

Green Living Idiot

Be Prepared

Young Love

The Birth of Johnny Kaempfer

The Oscars through the eyes of a 12-year-old

More Kid Videos

The Worst Part

I got a little verklempt

The Right Question

A Wacky Remedy

Funny Kid Videos

Overheard in the mudroom

Holiday Letter 2007

Innocence Lost

2007 Toy Guide

A Turkey Story

It was sixteen years ago this week...

More Funny Mom & Dad videos

Halloween isn't for Everyone

Episode 10

The birth of Tommy Kaempfer

Paperwork

Funny Mom & Dad Videos

Anna Kaempfer

The Birth of Sean Kaempfer

The Nursing Home

The DMV

A Perfect Storm

How Elvis turned me into the Snow Dome King

The Behavior Board

Performance Food

Episode 7

The Interactive Billboard

Annoying Dad

Field Trip Friday

Episode 6

Fathers Day and Mary Ann Childers

Bad, Bad, Pre-school Dad

Ode to a City Mom

21st Century Road Trips

MySpace

Mother's Day Rap

Premature Jubilation

Suburban Man: Episode 4

Seperate Bedrooms?

VS Day

Take Me out to the Ballgame

Suburban Man: Episode Three

The Sweetest Words in the English Language

The Birth of Johnny Kaempfer

The Evil Genius

Suburban Man, Episode 2