Let It Snow

What a lovely weekend it was in this winter goddamned wonderland. It started when my alter ego, TechnoSnag, deleted all of the comments left by the loyal Friends of Befouled. Thanks to Jennifer and fish, that little SNAFU's been rectified.

From there, it was an easy transition to Saturday's Death Storm '07. Based on the weather forecasts I was expecting it to start snowing lava and poisonous snakes. It wasn't quite that bad, and in fact would have been quite nice to watch from the comfort of my home. Needless to say, I was not in the comfort of my home. I was at a basketball tournament with my two youngest boys, across town in a neighborhood that can be charitably described as struggling.

Which prompted two lectures before we left.

"First, do not start talking about how you're 'gangstas.' You're not. You're a couple kids from the suburbs."

"Hey pops, I am a gangsta," said my middle son.

"We gonna do some street ballin' today," said my youngest son.

"Don't be morons," I said. "Just go play basketball and be respectful."

They rolled their eyes but I wasn't too worried. They're pretty good at acting human in public.

I continued. "Second, the drive is going to suck. A lot. It's going to be slow and irritating and I'll be insane the whole time. If you nag or whine I'll just get madder."

Again they rolled their eyes. This one worried me.

With good reason, it turned out. Six minutes into the drive, the middle one started.

"How come you're going so slow?"

"So I don't end up in the ditch like that fool," I answered, pointing at the fool in question.

"But you're a fool," said my son. "You'd like it in a ditch."

"We should have four-wheel drive," the youngest interjected. "Why weren't you smart enough to buy a car like that?"

"Duh. Because he's a fool, stupid," said the middle one.

"Don't call me 'stupid,' you idiot," said the youngest.

They commenced to punching each other while I tried to drive, scream, and cry all at once.

The tournament was fine. The games were great and all, but more important, I got to sneak out between games to a taqueria down the block where I had, not surprisingly, tacos, which were, also not surprisingly, very good.

Sunday was even better than tacos. With my Lovely Bride at class, the middle and youngest sons went to a friend's house for the day, while the friend's dad, E., came over to watch football on the new TV. My oldest son was still around, but he's a teenager and doesn't make much noise beyond the occasional sneer. The three of us watched the game, had a few laughs, and generally marveled at the solitude.

"See dad," said my kid. "If you didn't have my brothers it would always be like this."

"Yes, but I love them," I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. "Parenthood fulfills me."

"Whatever," he answered, not believing me any more than I did.

"You know what we should do?" said E. "Get an apartment. You, me, a couple other dads. We wouldn't live in it but on weekends we could go there to watch football. Or just stare at the wall and think how quiet it is."

"Can I come?" asked my son.

"No," said E.

"I can't wait until I'm a grown-up," said the boy.

It's funny the lessons we learn.