The Butthead Diaries

It's an ugly word. Not totally profane nor on the list of magic words that will get you kicked out of a basketball game, but a bad word nonetheless. I'm sorry if I offended anyone just by using it in the title. But after surviving Butthead weekend recently only the actual word will suffice.

Colin likes to try things on for size. He has an older brother and his two best friends have older brothers. He hangs out at baseball games like a batboy and gets much more "exposure" than Quinn ever did. Somehow last week he picked up "Butthead." And sure enough, tried it out. First on Quinn, which met with consequences from Mom and Dad. And, then on Mom and Dad which DEFINITELY met with consequences. Much of the weekend was spent purging "Butthead" from his vocabulary. Most were preceeded with "you are a ..." and said with conviction even disdain. Here a "Butthead" there a "Butthead" everywhere a "Butthead." And, then, by Monday morning -- poof -- it was gone. Maybe the consequences took their toll, maybe having your mouth washed out with Softsoap ("now with Milk Protein and Honey") really is that awfully memorable, but much to our delight (and maybe some pride) we had purged the word in 72 hours. Mind you it was a rough 72 hours, but purged nonetheless.

So, an entire week has gone and nary a BH has been heard. Now there are other things that have cropped up in that week (he's 4 after all), but bad name calling is not one of them. We've worked a lot on being a good teammate with our brothers and treating people how we would want to be treated ourselves.

Then Monday night we return from a walk. The weather had turned from last week's gorgeous weather, but it was a comfortable night nonetheless. We had a great walk and talk. Some of our best family time is on walks around the neighborhood ("Quinn, you know, someday you won't think Mom and I are cool anymore..."). We stayed out a few minutes too long. The boys were snipping at each other a bit as we returned the last few blocks (over pinecones, no less). The walk ended kind of poorly. Not epic, bad, just ordinary poor. Quinn went upstairs first, Colin lingering in the basement with Kate, Lawton and I. "Now Colin, that was a great walk, why don't you be a good teammate, treat Quinn kindly, and when you go up ask him to work on the puzzle with you until dinner." It seemed to register, he put his shoes away without a reminder and went upstairs.

Quietly, expectantly, Kate and I hoped for the best and craned our heads to hear upstairs. He seemed in the right frame of mind. He reaches the top of the stairs and with no anger, no malice, a conversational tone and perhaps (though we couldn't see it) even a smile/smirk on his face greets Quinn with "Hey Butthead."

No longer an only child?

I still get carded. It doesn't happen with 100% frequency like it did before I had kids (and it didn't matter if my kid(s) were with me or not -- is there some secret mark? is it that obvious? "this man has produced a child and therefore must be over 21?" Strange.), but it does still happen. Every once in a while.

That frequent -- or given my penchant to purchase "adult" beverages -- very infrequent, occurrence, has been replaced over the years with the passive/aggressive workplace reminders of my youthfulness. Explaining to a new Sonics owner that I had been with the team for 10 years drew the serious/incredulous/patronizing reply -- "Did you start when you were 13?" It's clear they have a mark set in their head -- mid to late twenties at best -- and then they hear something that doesn't make the math work -- three kids, whistling "The Reflex," married almost 15 years, started as an intern in '92, memories of the Miracle on Ice, 13 years of Marketing experience.

Invariably once the math is busted and the truth is told I hear the backpedaling -- "oh, but that's a compliment," "you'll be so glad later in life," etc. Elbow tap, chuckle, heh, heh. Secretly though I think it bothered me. Maybe not taken as seriously as someone who looked more seasoned. Insecurities -- "do I come across like someone in their mid-twenties." Though, as George and Jerry reassuringly remind us -- "not that there's anything wrong with that." The mid-twenties, that is.

And, then, the capper. Just recently, boarding an airplane with our entire entourage of 5 people. I hand all five boarding passes to the United gate agent (not to be confused with flight attendants, who are not to be confused with stewardesses) who scans and beeps his way to checking us in. Keep walking down the jetway, Kate following and holding Lawton, Colin behind her practicing his swing. And, Quinn bringing up the rear. He pauses, puts his hand out for the boarding pass stub -- because that's what he's seen other people do and, have I mentioned, he's a "by the book" type of guy. Gate Agent, pauses, momentarily shakes off the stupor of taking 923 boarding passes already that day, quickly recalls his last check-in and says "oh, I already give it to your big brother."

Kate and I freeze, both thinking we heard what we thought we heard. Quinn starts to smile slowly as he registers. His dad, heavy-laden and looking ever the part of a three kid dad, has been mistaken for the older brother of a nine year old. Loud peals of laughter from the jetway as we wonder what would that make Kate? I board the 757 headed for 13 A, B, C and D with my three little brothers. And Mom?

The Only Kid in the Sports Bar ... Again

During last weekend's trip to the NCAA West Regionals (aka The Lowest Scoring Regional Since the Shot Clock) Quinn and I sought out a place to watch the games we weren't seeing in person. The "off" day between games in San Jose meant 4 games in other regions. There was enough riding on these games (more on that later) that we needed to watch them. Highlights wouldn't suffice.

So, like any good Dad I looked for a clean sports bar in downtown San Jose. We found the only one. One row behind the bar, high chairs (not highchairs), surrounded by grown men in Kansas and UCLA gear (apparently it wasn't an "off" day for the fans). Me and Quinn. I asked the server twice -- "we (motioning to the 9 year old) can sit here, right?" Apparently so.

Three banks of two TV's each, both games covered. Perfect. We sat down at the 19:00 mark of the first game, ordered too much food and stretched it out over the entire game. Good food, no foul language, not smoky, no drunk fans around us save one odd character -- a very memorable evening. Light rail (some cities have made public transportation a priority) back to the hotel, brush teeth and in bed to watch the second half of the late games. Quinn was sound asleep before 9 PM. Which is more than I can say for his last trip to a sports bar with his Dad...

Several of my Sonics alumni friends set up a "draft" NCAA pool but needed an extra participant. Enter Quinn. Rewind to three weeks ago, the night we returned from Phoenix -- up early that morning (ok, no different than any other morning), played baseball in the park, went to the Mariners spring training complex 3 hours pre-game, sat thru a game, rushed to rental car return, thru security, bags at the airport and p/u by loving wife -- after not enough food and too much sun was the night of the "draft." Quinn spent the entire flight meticulously rank ordering all 64 teams in the tournament. We got home from this 4 day marathon trip at 9:20 PM and dropped off Kate, Colin and Lawton.

Quinn and I rushed to The Ram (sports bar) by 9:30 PM. On a school night. After the trip. To gamble. In a bar. 7 guys and one 9 year old sitting around on a Tuesday night until after 11 PM drafting teams and putting money in the pot. I don't even have a good story from it or even particularly memorable quotes (Q: "that's a solid pick, Mickey," "Marshall, you realize that 6 of your teams are all in the same region"), just a great memory of a beaming, albeit tired kid doing what most would think are completely age-inappropriate activities.

Look out Roger Federer

Despite my insistence that this not become a "kids say the darndest things" blog, I would be remiss in not sharing Theology, according to Quinn and Colin. This story should be framed by reminding readers that Colin David Ballbach doesn't take things at face value. His older brother is much more willing to accept what he hears. When Quinn hears something in Sunday School he goes with it. I heard it from a reputable source so it must be true. Colin, on the other hand, needs more info. -- "but, WHERE is Jesus?" Up in the sky, in heaven, all around, none of them suffice. "No, WHERE exactly is He?"

So, when going to bed recently after saying prayers, Colin starts in again -- "but WHERE is Jesus, what does He do?" Perhaps we were tired, perhaps we just wanted to get downstairs and watch 4 Jon Stewarts awaiting on Tivo, I'm not sure exactly, but neither Kate nor I answered right away. In jumps older brother Quinn to fill the void.

"It's like He's all around, Colin -- he's all around you and everyone."

"No, but WHERE is Jesus"

Uh oh. Starting to go down a familiar path, 8:45, wouldn't be the first time he egged his older brother on, tired parents jump in, "OK guys time for bed. Talk more in the morning."

Older brother adds one final commentary -- "it's like there are lots of little Jesus' on your head, Colin and Jesus is the best at everything ever, the best basketball player, the best baseball player, the best football player..."

Parents thinking and glancing at each other -- "this could be interesting, let's see where this goes..."

Quinn, continues ... "the best at math, the best at Chess..."

And, then, the light bulb goes off with Colin, emphatically jumping in, "Yeah, it's like He's on my head and the best in the whole world at Tennis!!"

That's right, for 4 year old Colin to finally start to grasp who Jesus was he needed to understand that Jesus was right on top of his head and was very very good at Tennis. (Editors note: my son is crazy about sports -- baseball, basketball, football -- and probably watches too much of them, but has 1) never played tennis 2) never watched tennis 3) I don't believe ever said the word, tennis.

But that did it. He started to get a glimpse of the strange idea of an all powerful God by the proximity to his hair and a fuzzy yellow ball. I think we straightened out the lots of "little tiny Jesus'" part with a quick discussion of the trinity -- at least Quinn got it. I wish I could recall even more of the theological discussion that followed, but the light bulb moment was clear. We haven't heard the "where" question since and I'm certain Colin will be glued to Wimbledon in June hoping to catch a glimpse...

"Hi Willie Bloomquist!"

I'm sure any witnesses suspected I was using him as bait. Even at Spring Training, I learned, the practice of attracting the attention (read: autograph) of even a minor league ballplayer, is serious stuff. I'd seen the professional autograph hounds for years at the Sonics, and become fairly immune to it, but even quaint ballparks on sunny mornings in the Cactus league can't escape them.

Nearly 4 year old Colin, rosy cheeks from the 90 degree weather, over sized Mariners cap slightly askew, and Ichiro jersey t-shirt was a Spring Training magnet. Seat neighbors chuckled (except the woman who, unable to hide her exasperation, blurted "why do you keep touching my toes?" -- Biggie's fascination with toes, women's toes in particular, is as consistent as it is odd/troubling), ushers (they're all retirees and grandparents apparently) couldn't resist a greeting and conversation, and ballplayers went directly to him.

Maybe my parental bias shows in assuming his off-the-charts cuteness was responsible this. Perhaps it was the high-decibel, unrelenting, unmistakably child-like voice greeting he gave EVERY baseball player he saw. "Hi Yuniesky." "Hi, Jose Lopez, Hi." "Raul, Hi, Raul." No one escaped the onslaught of greetings. Sure he picked up a Sharpie every once in a while as the weekend wore on and he witnessed how everyone else interacted, but somehow Colin decided at the first spring training game (one of four... in four days .... plus a Suns game ... in 90+ degree weather ... yes, he's four, no it's not excessive and yes, we used sunscreen... liberally) that he was going to greet every baseball player he saw. If he knew them he would use their name, if he didn't he'd just say hi. Over and over.

To their credit, most players (tall first basemen and fleet-footed center fielders being the exception) responded. A wave, a smile, "hey buddy," "how ya' doin,'" tip of the cap, etc. provided a great acknowledgement. And many, sought out and approached the small, shrill greeting. It was a great moment, repeated often over four days, for a ball player to see the source of the greeting, come over assuming he'll have a Sharpie and ball thrust in his direction, but instead get the greeting again, "Hi", this time at close range. No strings attached, no autograph needed, just a near 4 year old saying hello.

It was actually quite disarming to see the players break out of their autograph coma when they realized this little guy just wanted to say hello. The ensuing reactions were genuine -- a return greeting, a high five, short conversation, just a moment of connection until the autograph hounds descended, washing the red-cheeked four year old into a sea of thrusting hands and balls -- "can you sign, can you sign, sign the sweet spot please, just one more..."

A week after returning, when breaking the news to Colin that he wasn't going on the upcoming NCAA regional basketball trip, he responded with only one question and this one directed at his older brother -- "Quinny, Quinny, when you go on your trip, are you going to say hi to the basketball players...."

Barbershop trumps car seat

No, wait, it really hit me when... Colin did a full "snow angel" meltdown on the barbershop floor. Yes, it's an odd sensation to carry the car seat, as the primary caregiver, but "odd sensation" doesn't even begin to describe the barbershop encounter.

Magnolia Barber Shop, 3:30 PM on a recent Wednesday. Crowded as always. (There are a lot of barbershops in this city and I'm still not certain why we choose to drive to one of the most hard-to-reach parts of the city for kid haircuts, but I digress) 5 men in the store -- not including me and the Ballbach boys. One in the chair reading Wall Street Journal and looking the part. Two of Magnolia's famous drivers, both pushing 85. One younger guy reading the local sports page and probably just finished a construction shift. One high school or community college kid, borderline skater.

And, me and the three boys. Great idea, we'll get a quick haircut for Quinn before he has to be at Church at 4. I'll feed Lawton while we wait and Colin, well, Colin can play with the cars in the cardboard box. Now, I do like this barbershop, but the cars have been in the same cardboard box for years and most likely never been cleaned. Normally this bothers me, but today my defenses are down. I'm struggling with feeding Lawton, who, unusually for him, isn't interested in eating. Colin is driving aforementioned dirty cars up and over the legs of post-shift construction worker and sullen borderline skater. Skater looks up occasionally and nervously smiles as Colin drives the truck over his middle thigh. I'm just trying to get Lawton to eat.

Quinn's haircut is done and he gets the obligatory Tootsie Roll (apparently they were cheaper than lollipops on the last Costco trip). Colin, who for the first time didn't get a haircut at the same time (he's "growing his hair out," ask Kate) senses the inequity and wants a Tootsie Roll as well. Lawton still isn't eating -- less than two ounces in 20 minutes, not like him. Problem is, well besides LJ not eating, Colin had 2 Tootsie Rolls when we first arrived. Sorry, Biggie (Colin) no more for you -- you've still had one more than your brother.

Now, Colin's meltdowns aren't always predictable ("I want to dunk on a hoop where I can do it my own self AND hang on the rim" -- thanks, Rashard), but in retrospect this one probably was. Colin --whom it's important to note -- is wearing his standard winter uniform, fleece cozy pants and a fleece top -- goes ape at the Tootsie Roll inequity. He goes face down at the base of chair 2 and 3 on the barbershop floor. Remember the state of the cars in the cardboard box and it's not a stretch to picture that the broom doesn't get brought out after each cut. Full on "snow angel" tantrum. Face down. Barber shop floor. Wearing fleece.

Complete silence except for Colin's screams and a #2 razor. Wall Street Journal guy looks even harder for JDS Uniphase stock info, construction worker instantly drawn to story about new Storm assistant coach, older chaps probably oblivious and skater guy is just relieved the Colin isn't driving the truck over his leg anymore. Lawton still isn't eating.

Bottle dripping breast milk, I gather our stuff and quick draw the VISA. "Time to go, Colin" I muster. Arm movements become more exaggerated, snow angel is furious. Swipe, sign, add tip, thank you. Lawton, suddenly interested in eating again, starts screaming. Colin, miraculously, gets up after a tug on the fleece and aware the rest of us are heading out the door. Stands up, still screaming and is ... a yeti. 5-6 haircuts worth of clippings are embedded in his fleece. Turtleneck to shoe.

I was the kid who, as a youngster, ran to the surf to wash my hands every time they got sand on them at the beach. So, this yeti-like appearance should bother me, but we have momentum toward the door. We all make it out the door -- I so wish I knew, what if anything was said in the barbershop after this entertaining departure -- and Colin relapses in to tantrum, part deux. This time, on the steps, laying down. It's been raining all day (February in Seattle). Wet fleece, moisture, a little dirt, and 6 haircuts worth of hair.

Forget the car seat. This is when it really hit me.

It hit me when...

...I was carrying the car seat. There's something awkward and burdened about the way you walk and feel when you carry one. It's not feminine or even un-manly. It's not the instant branding that comes with carrying a diaper bag. It's just not natural.

Perhaps technology has progressed since this '97 model, but it's nearly impossible to feel graceful, at ease or even in control when you are lugging the car seat. Arm extended slightly, 22 lbs. of baby and plastic banging against your right leg. Baby forming an odd fulcrum. Jostling, unsteady. Imagine it from their perspective. A giant is holding them at arms length, laboring, as they swing back and forth and bump. It is an odd gait the giant walks. Short step, big step, bump. Short step, big step, bump. That's when it hit me.

It wasn't that it was mid-day on a weekday. It wasn't diapers or bottles or playdates or laundry or homework or not showering. I didn't feel self-conscious of neighbors glancing out the window -- day off again? maybe one of his kids is sick? meeting the furnace guy? wait, is he Home?

With a capital H.

Yes, Home. Last time was more transitional, this time is more intentional. I'm well aware that not everyone would choose this. Also, aware that many would love to have this opportunity with their own kids. I'm grateful on both counts and plan to use this forum to share some thoughts and experiences. Short step, big step, bump.