my (world) cup runneth over

I'm a Franz. I'm not great at telling people to do things when the message is hard, or contrary to what they are currently doing. I've asserted myself once or twice in my life, and I think it almost cost me a few relationships, and at a minimum, caused some hard feelings for a while. I'm not good at it. I affirm well. There is a reason the Senator Al Franken's Stuart Smalley was a bit of a cult hero in our home. We like telling people they're good enough. They're smart enough. And gosh darn it, people like them. Even when they suck, they're dumb, and no one likes them (except for us). This is not a perfect approach to people, I know, but it's what we do best, and what comes naturally. Le chemin de moindre résistance, as the French say (I just Googled that).

I worry about this quality as a parent. Probably more than anything else, I try to identify the right times to assert myself with our children; when to set boundaries, when to impose a consequence, when to push them, when to blatantly correct when something or someone has been wronged...and then when to let it be, let it play out...affirm. If I've succeeded at all in asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot. If I've failed at asserting boundaries, it's because I think about it a lot.

After 30 years of life, and at least 25 of those being involved in some sort of organized sport, I've been able to observe a lot of father-son interactions on the pitch, the court, the field, and on the sidelines. I've watched my friends puke before games, shutdown during games, and cry after games...all because of an over-bearing father. I was never that kid, thank goodness, and I certainly don't want Brennan to ever become that kid. And even though it's against my nature to be imposing (being 5'7" helps too), I'm aware that what I prefer impacts my son. I'm aware that despite having a physique (at this point) that may suit him well for swimming or basketball, he is obsessed with soccer in no small part due to my love of the sport. During the month of June, Brennan and I (and 14 other Americans) watched a lot of soccer. I've answered the question, "Who are the seven best players in the world," at least 89 times (in 89 different ways). I've tried to discover what number Lionel Messi wore on his first Argentine jersey...and his first Barcelona jersey. I've been required to learn the "Number 10" for each team that made it to the quarterfinals of the World Cup. We've analyzed how Tim Howard's Tourette's syndrome may actually enhance his ability as a goalie. We now have a couch in the basement named "Maradona." This quasi-obsession made it possible for Brennan to sit outside for 9 hours in the brutal heat this past Saturday to watch me play in a 3v3 soccer tournament (we lost in the championship game. Mom and Dad, I'll tell you all about next time I'm home. Just make sure Kari and Maggie are around to hear ALL the details). He loves the game, and I'm happy to answer all of his questions.

Of all the Q&A exchanges over the past several weeks, one will always remain with me. It wasn't a question I answered, but rather a question I posed which Brennan answered. During the US v. Ghana game I mentioned how much I appreciated Michael Bradley's game. The guy hustles like mad, has a great command of the midfield, and gets everyone involved in the game. My kind of player. I asked Brennan, "Why do you think he gives it his all like that? Why do you think he plays so hard?" Without missing a beat, Brennan looked up at me out of the corner of his eye, and said, "Because his Dad is watching him." And of course he was. Bob Bradley, Michael's father, is the coach of the US team...and Brennan, of course, knew this. I responded, "Do you play harder because you know I'm watching you?" He looked at me, a bit embarrassed, and responded with a smile and an honest, "Well, yes."

Even though I fear what I may be keeping Brennan from as a result of my affirmative approach, I'm happy that I can influence him...passively. This week Brennan is learning soccer from a bunch of Brits who charge WAY too much money to teach American kids how to really play football. We're paying for an accent and fancy Pumas. They'll have an impact on his love of soccer, no doubt. But they won't be his Dad. That's mine. Despite being passive at times, overbearing at times, and carrying general shortcomings at all other times, I'm happy with the arrangement of being Brennan's Dad...and happy that he wants to play hard for me. Just don't puke, Brennan. Please. You're good enough...

fantastic ms. zozo

I'm a big Fantastic Mr. Fox fan. It was the first real book that I read and it spurred a mild childhood obsession with Roald Dahl. It was also the first real book that I read to Brennan. The fact that Wes Anderson chose my favorite Dahl book to create the best cinematic interpretation of any Dahl book to date (read and weep, Chocolate Factory lovers) just makes it that much better. It's like the ultimate white compliment, and even better than claiming that you saw Bottle Rocket (1996) in 1994.

There is a scene in the film where Mr. Fox is lamenting his life under ground and his respectable profession as a newspaper columnist. He asserts that living in their current home makes him feel poor. His ever-loving and ever-practical wife responds, "We are poor. But we're happy." He replies in his characteristically flippant manner, and the movie goes on. It's a good moment in the film, but not one that I ever considered particularly memorable...especially for the kids. Until the other day.

Brennan has become a bit concerned with our recent decision to quit my good job and resume graduate studies on a full time basis. We openly talk to the kids about our early years of marriage...we didn't have any money, ate a lot of rice, took good advantage of eating a ton during trips to our parents' homes, etc. When we have discussed this in the past, Brennan wears his passage through poverty like a medal. "You know Zoe, I didn't have chocolate until I was four. That's how poor we were. Opening scene of Saving Private Ryan? Yeah, I've been there." Perhaps we overstated the poverty, but I don't think so. Brennan has my propensity for taking life's circumstances and mentally bending them just enough to convince himself that he is a conqueror/saint/survivor. Have I ever told you about no warm showers for 5 months in Brasil?

On this particular day, Brennan was asking specific questions about how life will change when I quit my job. "Will we move" (we tried. not any more.)? "Will we keep the black car" (yes. forever.)? "Will I still go to Southside" (yes.)? After a few more questions, he arrived at the final question. The kicker. His real concern. "Will we be poor? (voice reflected partial excitement, part terror.)" Before I could respond, Zoe, who had been taking all of this in quietly, chimes in with: "We are poor. But we're happy."

Hold. The. Phone.

6 words. Nailing the context. Roald Dahl. Resolving concern with a gentle, optimistic rebuke. Quoting film. I think I'm in love. Zoe instantly recognized she was on to something brilliant and continued quoting the film: "What the cuss did you say, you little cuss?" I suppose we could do without that, but she was on a roll, so I had to let it slide.

There are many lessons here, and parallels to be made between our life and that of the Fox family...but that's for another time. In the end, the experience made me grateful for our kids' good sense of humor, their appreciation for good entertainment, their keen memory, and their ability to appropriately access pop culture and insert it into daily interactions (clutch). I hadn't been this proud since a 3 yr old Brennan started singing Salt n' Peppa's Push It to a surprised checkout clerk in upstate New York.

Stuff White People Really Like #476: Children who can quote Wes Anderson.