Thanks, Boys

I normally try to write something in this space that is funny, or insightful - or, if I'm really trying, both. But tonight I just want to thank my little boys for being so patient and enduring their father's unfulfilled childhood dreams.

First, they've patiently pretended to care about learning to bat left-handed and throw right-handed (that's a ticket to the major leagues, see). And now, this. I always wanted to be a member of Kiss...

Thanks for sitting still during the makeup session, boys.

Save the Planet - If You Can

My 10-year-old daughter is a liberal. I already know it. In fact, I've known it for a long time.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. I'm just saying. And her tendencies began to show in February of 2009, shortly after President Obama was inaugurated.

She had spent part of a Wyoming winter day looking out her classroom window at the blowing snow, and she began to wonder what the homeless do at times like that. And she began to worry that they have no place to go, no place to get warm.

So she sat down at her desk and hand wrote a letter to the President, urging him to make sure that there are enough shelters for the homeless.

I dropped the letter in the mail myself. Despite what must be a rare letter from an elementary schooler in Wyoming, we have yet to receive a response. Doesn't matter. I'm very proud of her for writing it in the first place.

At home, she's become known as The Rulebook. If you leave a light on, she explains to you the energy you could save if only you'd turn it off. Same with letting the water run while you brush your teeth. Can't get away with it if The Rulebook is around.

Saving the planet, and all its inhabitants, got a bit tougher when her three brothers arrived. We often joked that at nearly 30 diapers a day for the first several months, we'd developed our own plan to single-handedly destroy the planet.

She didn't think it was such a good joke.

I was reminded of her concern for the planet and all creatures great and small recently as she was playing with her brothers on the driveway. See, she's the kid who catches spiders in the house and releases them out on the deck, rather than instantly crushing them, as I would.

She was helping her brothers ride their tricycles and drive their mini-Mini Coopers down our long driveway when Luke jumped out of the car near the newspaper box. In this year of a grasshopper rampage, there were were literally thousands of bugs for the boys to catch, and squeeze, and stick in their mom's face for review.

Luke immediately began stomping on grasshoppers with both feet. It sort of looked like the old high school football happy feet drill: pick 'em up and put 'em down as quickly as you can, but this time with a grasshopper under each foot.

Allison calmly grabbed Luke by the arm and escorted him back into the car. I turned off the lawn mower in time to hear her tell him that there was no need to kill the grasshoppers. After all, she said, they hadn't hurt anyone.

My wife and I think Allison will be a veterinarian. Doesn't matter what she decides to do professionally.

She'll be a good, kind-hearted young lady. Just as we always knew she would be.

We love you, sweetheart.

Nature vs. Nurture - Part 2

I've written here before about the battle between nature and nurture - the natural tug-of-war between what we teach our children and what they appear to 'know' on their own.

Last time I noted that my boys just knew to fall asleep in front of the TV with their hands in their pants. Nature 1, Nurture 0.

Much has happened in the time since that post. My boys walk and run. They talk and sing and dance and play with friends. They've really come to love their sisters. In fact, there are times when Luke needs help but he won't accept it from me or my wife. He will only allow my oldest daughter to console him.

They turned 2 last month, and they are fully in the throes of learning to be 2-year-olds. Ben yells 'No!' at me, no matter what I say to him.

Here's an example. Me: "Ben, how was your day?" Ben: "No!"

Here's another. Me: "Ben, that picture you drew of you walking with your mom is terrific!" Ben: "No!"

And Jack has learned the 2-year-old's art of dramatic interpretation. Or, maybe it's just drama. If his brother takes his toy, Jack slowly tilts his head back, closes his eyes, widens his mouth into a toothy oval, and screams to the heavens.

If Jack asks to be picked up and a parent declines the invitation, Jack slowly tilts his head back, closes his eyes, widens his mouth into a toothy oval, and screams to the heavens. Doesn't matter the issue. The response is the same.

And Luke. Well, Luke has learned that he's bigger than the other two. Which means he can bear hug or aggressively tackle at will. He grabs his brothers and squeezes until Ben yells "No!" and Jack tilts his head back and hollers to the heavens. And just tonight, he decided that he was pugilist enough to box with me. He misjudged that matchup.

All of that seems pretty normal to us. So perhaps it's Nature 2, Nurture 0. We've always wondered what it would be like to have boys. And defying, hollering, and tackling seem to be it.

But recently, Luke took the age-old argument to another level.

We've been working on potty training for a while now without great results. A few weeks ago, though, Luke told us that he needed to go peepee on the potty. So we rushed him to his little training potty, pulled down his pants, and sat him down.

At which point he immediately got up, went to the bookshelf and got his favorite book, and then returned to his seat on the potty. He needed something to read.

I wish I could have taught him that.

Nature 3, Nurture 0.

Paradise Found

The man walked up the concrete steps slowly, occasionally looking behind him at a little boy who remained in the front row along the left field foul line.

By the time the man reached the top of the steps, a smile had spread across his face. The boy had caught a foul ball, the man said, and he was politely - but aggressively - asking for autographs from every player who passed by.

"I'm 53 years old," the man said, "and I've never caught a foul ball."

The boy, 10 years old, was his son. And they had come to Spring Training in Arizona together to watch professional baseball in the most intimate setting possible.

It's the same reason I flew to Phoenix by myself. To escape the Wyoming "spring", and to watch major leaguers get ready for the 2010 baseball season. Going by myself had its upside - I didn't have to persuade anyone to stay for the entire game, even if it was clearly out of hand by the fourth inning.

But it had its downside, too. I was alone. My boys are still too young to sit still for three-plus hours and watch baseball. And my dad died when I was in high school.

So I wandered around the Camelback Ranch complex by myself, listening to Hall-of-Famers give up-and-coming rookies tips on hitting big league off-speed pitches. I stood beside the bullpen and heard pitchers who were stars when I was a boy teach the next generation how to throw a big league slider.

And I watched fathers chase their sons who were chasing players to get autographs and pictures.

I expected the trip to be exciting, restful, and warm. It was all of those things. What I didn't expect was the constant reminder of all the plans my dad and I had made to go to Spring Training someday. Someday.

We talked about it a lot. In fact, one spring we planned a trip around the country to watch games in every major league stadium. But we never did it. I had all but forgotten those plans until I saw the man beaming while his boy elbowed for position in the front row so he wouldn't miss a chance to meet a ballplayer.

My dad and I shared many interests, but baseball was foremost among them. We suffered together through the dark months, from late October to the start of Spring Training in February. Then we spent our summers playing, watching and reading about baseball.

At almost two years old, my boys can already throw a baseball. Last weekend we started learning to hit off of a tee. And at least four nights a week, they point at the TV and shout 'Go Rockies'.

You were too young this year, boys. But in another year or two, you can stand next to me by the batting cages at the Rockies complex near Phoenix. We'll eat hot dogs and learn to keep score and spit sunflower seeds. I'll chase you as you chase your heroes, politely - but aggressively - trying to get their signatures on the round horsehide trophy that you'll cherish as long as the ink lasts.

My dad and I talked about it a lot, but we never did it.

We will, boys.