There Are 172,800 Seconds In A Weekend

Friday night, my youngest's friend told me that my kid's been moved from the seat he was given at the beginning of this school year. Apparently he was talking a lot. Big surprise. I asked whether the teacher had moved him into an empty closet down the hall. Not yet, I gather.

This discussion took place at the ballgame. The team had a contest last spring, "Write An Essay On What Your Father Means To You." First place was a chance to stand on the field during the National Anthem. We didn't win that. We were with all the rest of the entrants, all of us getting a coupon for a discount on the cheap seats, a misnomer given that my first trip to the concession stand cost $29, and that didn't include any beer.

There wasn't much chance of my boy ending up on the field. His entry was a meandering commentary on the teams I've coached, a passing reference to my fondness for practical jokes, a paragraph on my alleged hatred for dogs, topped off with a discussion of the ways in which I annoy him. At least he spelled "annoy" correctly.

By the time we got home from the game, it was pretty late. Saturday we had soccer, then he went to a friend's to play, then we had company for dinner, then we went to a neighbor's to listen to a friend play guitar, then we watched a movie, and by Sunday morning everyone was more tired and cranky than usual.

I like to sleep in on Sundays and I wandered downstairs around 9 a.m. The kids were all in the family room, the oldest playing Xbox, the others doing color commentary, none of it supportive and all of it resulting in an increasingly volatile situation. I did my best to calm it by shouting, "Shut the hell up or I swear I'll kill you all," but things continued to deteriorate until the youngest came upstairs crying because his brother had called him dumb.

"You're not dumb," I muttered, trying to finish the crossword puzzle before my mother arrived for her weekly visit.

"Yes I am," he said.

"You got great scores on your standardized tests, you have good grades, you just aced your spelling test on Friday. You're not dumb."

"My brother says I am."

"He's a pinhead. Ignore him," I said, an inadvertently loud comment that elicited howls of protest from the other room.

About then my mother showed up. When she's not traveling, she comes by every week to give me unsolicited advice.

"When are you going to the doctor for a checkup?" she demanded after she'd greeted the boys, all of whom she loves far more than she ever did me.

"When they perform my autopsy," I said. "It should be pretty soon."

"Don't be stupid," she said, to the great delight of her grandchildren. She turned to my Lovely Bride. "When is he going?"

My Lovely Bride said, "If he hasn't made an appointment by the end of the year, I'm making one for him." She smirked at me. She's convinced a visit to the doctor doesn't count without a prostate exam.

"Leave me alone," I said. "I have insurance."

"Enough to buy a Ferrari?" asked the youngest.

"Yes," I replied.

"Cool," he said.

My mother glowered. "I do not want to help raise these boys," she said.

"Neither do I," I said. "Besides, they're half-feral already. They'll be fine."

As if to prove the point, one kid dropped to his hands and knees and started growling at our dog. His brother took the opportunity to kick him.

That proved enough family time for Grandma, who packed up her things and said goodbye. I know she wonders how she raised a son like me. Luck, I guess.