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.

5 reasons

Kids, in case you are ever short on reasons to love your family, here are the top 5 (current) reasons.

05) The other day, my father (your Papa) was playing wiffle ball and (apparently) crashed into Deea (wife of my cousin), giving her a concussion, stitches in the ear, and a dislocated shoulder. Deea is a very sweet person and surely didn't deserve this. I have no idea how it happened. I simply know that it is just ridiculous enough to make the list (and my lack of details makes it an even better/more tragic story).

04) Your Aunt Maggie was recently robbed. The thief entered her home, went through her panties, stole her computer, bled on her bed, BUT did NOT take her bike. Score.

03) Your parents are taking you to LouFest. Carolina Chocolate Drops. Jeff Tweedy. Built to Spill. Zooey Deschanel. Want to know what music I was involved in as a 7 year old? Safety Kids. That's right. Me dressed up as Freddy holding a stuffed frog hollering, "You're not gonna get rich on me!" while my mother (your Mimi) mouthed the words from the audience. *

02) _________________________________________________________________
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_______________Irish_________________________________________________
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(That was a story about your Mom's family that I can't tell you. It's really cute and endearing, but it might be misunderstood and lead to awkward silence, so it's probably best just left like this.)

Drum roll...

1) Your aunt Kari used to be married to Jerad. For a variety of reasons, they got divorced. Things were a bit dicey for a spell, but they are fairly smooth now. Their wonderful kids (your cousins) are well-adjusted and Kari and Jerad have begun their own separate lives.

Or have they?

Kari met a great guy named Kelly who loves her and the boys. He bought her a ring. They are getting married on June 12th.

Jerad met a gal named Kelly who loves him and the boys (I think). He bought her a ring (which according to Facebook looks a LOT like Kari's ring). They are getting married on June 12th.

Good thing they have three boys. Two ring bearers and one to spare? Any more Kellys up for a wedding?

And those, my sweet children, are five reasons you should love your family.

* I actually enjoyed Safety Kids, so thank you Mom. I'm not sure how or why I got involved...but I think it might have been Mom's first attempt at a multi-level work-from-home-business. Indeed, she didn't "get rich on me." Now if I were a little boy made of wax, then the story would have (does have) a different ending.

M&Ms (&M)

This entry is not about candy.

The other day, during his lunch break, my father went out for a ride on a tandem with his new lesbian co-worker. It's been fairly obvious that Dad has a gay co-worker, because he has brought up gay issues consistently during every recent conversation we have shared (except for the call where he tried to explain to me why nose-picking isn't ok in public. "Gentzy, it's like sex. We all enjoy sex, but you can't do it in public." Right, Dad...it's JUST like that.). This is classic A. Gentz Franz. He is SO open-minded and accepting that all he needs is a little exposure to something/someone and he is sold. I remember having a friend in junior high school who was a little untrustworthy. My parents (Dad mostly) expressed a slight objection to my socializing with this particular friend...until I had that friend over to the house. By the end of the visit, my dad had made up a nickname for him and was ready to have him marry one of my sisters.

This is not to say that my Dad was anti-gay before his interactions with this co-worker, it's just been an interesting time for all of us practicing Mormons and gay rights. The Church took a very strong stand that was hard for many of us to understand. We've been forced to think about the issue (which is good), but it was confusing for many to think about what to do with the issue. Some people jumped in line and supported the Church, while others walked the tight rope of "faithful Mormon and gay rights supporter." Those are of course only two reactions among myriad reactions to what has become a painful and divisive issue for many of our faith. Not to speak for Dad, but I'd explain his discomfort as a result of his intense love for the Church and his superordinate love for people...all people. Anyway...back to the tandem.

At some point after the tandem ride during lunch, this co-worker approaches Dad and tells him that "it would never work out between us because of the 3 Ms." My father, taken aback slightly, asks, "what are the 3Ms?" To which she responds, "Mormon, Male, and Married." When this was being related to me over the phone, at this point my mother yells out, "Can you believe this?" in a somewhat threatened way (as if Dad were being propositioned). Mom, no need to worry...the 3Ms pretty much define Dad. Getting one of those Ms out of him is not going to happen. You're safe.

This story sums up my Dad (kids, your Cakoo Papa). I've heard my father speak Ebonics, southern, sign language, and redneck (separate occasions). In those moments, he was black, southern, deaf, and a hick. NOW, he is a lesbian. Pleasers the world over salute you. If you ask me, this is a wonderful example of how my dad has made sense of the tension that frequently occurs within the mind and heart of many a person who actively practices a religion. This woman feels loved and accepted by someone who looks like the people who so frequently reject her. But my dad jumped on a tandem with her.

Religion is not enough of a reason for Dad not to love her. Indeed, as Dad views his religion (correctly, I might assert), his religion demands that he love her. Ironically, religion was 1/3 of the reason she cannot love him. Fair enough. I really don't think our family can take the whole, "Dad's leaving Mom for another woman...whom he converted to Mormonism and heterosexuality." We'll take the M&M&Ms.

lori's got the cayman islands. but we've got mexico.

Lori is somewhere in the Atlantic ocean right now, enjoying some well-deserved down time on a cruise with a bunch of old Europeans. Per the one text message I've received from her in the past 5 days, she seems to be having a good time. But here in sunny Champaign, we're having an even better time...here's proof:

On Saturday morning during the ride to Brennan's soccer game we were listening to radio commentary on the recent legislation in Arizona. Brennan asked a few questions to clarify what was going on, then listened to the rest of the report. Four hours later, he and Zoe were quietly playing in the toy room/bathroom. After about 25 minutes of the quiet play (complete solace...I almost fell asleep), Brennan emerged from the bathroom and announced, "A Mexican woman is moving into our bathroom." Zoe was dressed as the Mexican woman, and the bathroom was decorated eerily similar to some of the Latin living rooms I have been in. Complete with kitschy knick knacks, an electronic keyboard, and a Mexican flag. The only thing missing was a statuette of the Virgin. I am not sure if he was making a political statement, going for laughs, or just being compassionate (he definitely got laughs). While this was going on, Zoe simply stood there, exhausting her entire Spanish vocabulary over and over again: uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, seis, siete, nacho, libre, dez.

as i say. or, thank you grandpa franz. or, look Mel, paragraphs. or, Trina this nose is for you.

Last night I was on the tarmac, getting ready to leave O'Hare for Champaign and I was g-chatting (that's what the kids are calling IMing these days) with my good friend Cory, about an unfortunate run-in he had with some environmentally unfriendly Mormons. As the flight attendant made her rounds asking us to turn off all electronic devices including two way pagers, I powered down my phone and pulled out my book. As I was transitioning from the chat with Cory to my book, I did what I typically do when I'm mentally multi-tasking: I picked my nose. I had already scoped out my "drop zone" (not in the aisle, not on my pant leg, not on my carry on) so I was using discretion as I dug away; halfway between Glenn Beck and Steven Levitt in my head.

I had pulled away from my excavation recreation and settled into my book when I noticed a hand outstretched across the aisle towards me. In the hand was a little package of Kleenex; the hand was attached to an arm, which led to a lady, who, with arched eyebrows and a pitying look asked, "do you need one of these?" I had no idea how to respond, so I simply said, "I don't think so." She kept the Kleenex in my face, and without saying a word her expression yelled, "Um, yeah you do." I turned quickly back to my book and she gave up shortly thereafter. As I sat there, processing what had just occurred, I was left with only one thing to do. Well, two things. Ok, three. First, I checked for a hanger. Because potentially, I had a big ol' booger dangling from my nose that would indeed warrant a much appreciated tissue from a stranger. After discovering no such unfortunate stow away, I laughed to myself because of this unexpected airplane interaction (c'mon, who does this!?). Then finally, I did what any other reasonable adult would do; I put my finger in my nose and left it there. For the entire 29 minute flight down to Champaign I was picking my nose, altering fingers and occasionally striking the Grandpa Franz pose (thumb on chin, index finger on temple, middle finger in nose, pinkie and thumb dangling). I know she saw me, but she just pulled out her handheld Yahtzee player, pushed play on her disc man, and completely ignored me the rest of the flight.

During the flight while I was was picking and pretending to read, I had the chance to consider what had driven this woman to an inexplicable moment of boldness. Had she been through a rough relationship with a nose picker? Did she find it morally reprehensible? Did she think I would pick, roll, and flick in her direction? I was shocked and intrigued. I wanted to find out where she was coming from, but instead I sat there and made every shallow observation possible with the hope of arriving at some conclusion (missing teeth, orange Fanta, nose ring, smokers skin and voice, blonde highlights, white K-Swiss, acid wash jeans, faux snakeskin belt). Still, I had nothing. Maybe her reaction was visceral; however, when I told Brennan the story and asked him what he thought about her behavior, he concluded that "she probably thought you were uhskusting (*disgusting*)." I am sure he has overheard Lori denounce my nose picking with those exact words. Grandma Mary to my Edgar. I tell Brennan not to pick his nose.

Maybe it is disgusting, or maybe her reaction to my boogers is the same as the aforementioned Mormons' response to the question of why self-proclaimed creationists don't feel a greater responsibility to protect the environment ("because global warming is a lie"). At some point Ms. Anti-boog made up her mind that nose picking is ridiculous and she was sticking to that opinion. It was not open for debate. And in fact, she is so convinced of this fact, that she is willing to take great social risks to convince others that it must stop. For some people, some things are not open for debate or discussion. While I suppose that's ok (and of course I naturally take this approach on some things as well) I think its equally ok for people to pick their nose in opposition (or the appropriate equivalent).

Brennan, Zoe, and Ava, I welcome you to do the same in my moments of self-assured boldness. I think...

Envelope. PLEASE.

To celebrate our nine year anniversary, Lori and I took off for a weekend in Chicago. It was great. Good food, some shopping, a couples massage, Avett Brothers, some shopping, and spending money like we didn't have anything better to do with our money (we do). The BEST part of the weekend was that our kids were sick the whole time we were gone. This was great for two reasons: a) they were sick while we were gone and b) their babysitter, my mother-in-law, is a nurse. She LOVES taking care of people. Our kids healthy are hard to keep up with. When the kids are sick they are pretty mellow and cuddly. This was perfect for Lori's mom. We had it planned perfectly--we'd arrive home, and everyone would be on the mend, and a great weekend would get even greater. We caught the train back to town, arrived home at 6pm on Monday evening, and walked through the front door to find three happy and excited little kids. The house was REALLY clean, the kids were REALLY healthy, and we each did a pair of double fist pumps in our heads (thanks Maggie). Kids were in bed by 7:30 and we follwed suit by 9:00. As we were drifting off to sleep, Ava started to make some noise. The noise grew to crying. And then to all out frantic screaming. I went in, got her settled down, and returned to bed. Screaming 2 minutes later. Lori went in. To no avail. There was no fever, no coughing, no explanation. Then, just as Ava tilted her head back to perfectly position herself for an animalistic yelp (think wolf howl or hippo yawn) we saw them. Two molars, jutting through like two middle-fingered-shaped-rocks bursting rudely through the fertile Nebraskan soil. It looked like it hurt. Bad. Luckily, we got her settled down and back to sleep despite the knifelike portrusions. 20 minutes later, a thud came from Ava's room. Thuds coming from Ava's room aren't that uncommon; she typically throws all of her books out of the crib when she's frustrated. However, the thud on this night either came from a hard back edition of Atlas Shrugged, or Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. Ava had thrown herself out of the crib. We ran into the room ready to find Ava limp on the floor, but no, there she stood, like a victorious gladiator...standing and looking straight at us. Dazed, yes. But she was standing. Ava is in the 2nd percentile in most categories that pediatricians concern themselves with, but she is in the 105th percentile in the only category that matters (put Ava in a room with 100 other 17 month olds, and she will kick all their asses within 5 minutes. 100 + 5 = 105th percentile). I wanted an award for that night of parenthood. We deserved something. The weekend was planned too perfectly for it to end with defeat at the hands of a sleepless 1 year old UFC fighter. But I suppose there are no awards. The award is the moments when we enjoy anonymity, then brace ourselves for the natural slide back into reality where we still have bills, kids still have teeth and sleepless nights, and the bed still isn't made by an unknown third party with a key to our room.