“Four-Year-Old Wiffleball Sign-Ups”

There’s a league for 4-year-olds that starts in April and runs to the end of May. Every Saturday Will is going to play Wiffleball with a bunch of other kids and learn the fundamentals of the game. Well, technically he’ll be perfecting the fundamentals since I’ve been teaching him to swing a bat and throw a baseball since he was about a week old. But I digress.

On the surface this seems totally innocuous and very much a win-win. Will gets to be active, play with other kids and learn about a sport all at the same time. And it’ll be valuable bonding time with him as we practice and get to be together doing something we both love. All of that is true. On paper this should be a very fun, laid back time during which I can take pictures and talk with other parents and delight in watching my son scamper playfully around the baseball diamond.

But I don’t think that’s how it’s going down.

To understand what I’m talking about, you need to know a few things about me. First of all, I’m a perfectionist. Not regarding everything in my life, but certainly regarding sports. And second, I’m a huge crybaby when things don’t go perfectly. Which is often.

When I started playing baseball at the age of 5 I showed promise very early. I had a great arm and I could hit. My first coach was a friend of my dad’s, a born and bred New Jersey guy named Bill. He was a really good guy underneath his gruff exterior, but he was also a miserable prick. He knew I was good so he held me to a higher standard. While other kids were being praised for their attempts to catch the ball, I was criticized even when I did catch it for not using the right fundamentals. Or if I didn’t hit the cutoff man fast enough. Or if I legged out an infield single he’d poke fun at me for not hitting it in the outfield.

Ultimately he made me better, but I carried lofty expectations with me when I advanced to the next leagues for older kids. And that’s when it got really bad.

I made the all-star team when I was 9 years old. We had a really great team and a lot of awesome players in our age group, and we’d play together every summer for the next four years. Our coaches really knew what they were talking about and I learned more than I ever imagined about baseball in that time. But they expected a lot. I mean it. A lot. For instance, when we were 10, I remember we lost a game to our rival, Franklin. And after the game they told us we let ourselves down, our parents down and disappointed the entire town. I was crushed and in tears. And I vowed to never let anyone down again.

As you already know, that’s impossible. But combine that need to please with a perfectionist’s attitude and you got me as a kid. The kid who cried when he struck out. The kid who cried and threw a temper-tantrum when he didn’t make a play in the field. The kid who—and I’m not making this up—cried after hitting a double off the fence because it wasn’t a homerun. And of course, the kid who nearly had a mental breakdown if we lost the game. Let’s just say there are plenty of pictures of me with my team holding second place trophies and crying hysterically.

A neurotic, hyper-competitive, perfectionist crybaby. Those were some good times.

But for better or worse, I’ve carried that with me even to now. While my athletic days have long since passed me by, that attitude resurfaces in even the most mundane of endeavors. For example, MJ will no longer go bowling with me. When we were dating, she was beating me in the 8th frame and I was so pissed off I started kicking the ball return. And those of you who have watched Patriots and Red Sox games with me can probably attest to the fact that I am, well…not exactly a sane person when things start to go south.

Even with Will I’ve seen the competitiveness flare up. I eagle-eye his milestones and make sure he’s ahead of the curve. I compare him relentlessly to other kids his age and older, and get legitimately upset if they can do things he can’t. Hell, his recent progress report from preschool showed him to be advanced in every category except letters. He’s average in letters. This struck such fear into me that I’m now going to work more on letters with him every single night until he’s reading Stephen King books.

Which brings us to wiffleball.

When I found out I had a son my first thoughts were of teaching him sports. Unfortunately, I fear I will be “that sports parent.” The one everyone hates. The one who takes a kids’ game way too seriously. The one whose son goes 3 for 5 and then criticizes him for striking out in the third inning. And God forbid Will is average or even below average at sports. I’m not sure I can handle that.

I was raised with high standards, with sports and even grades. While everyone else had the traditional grading system, mine was different. An A was good, a B was a C and a C was failing. I still remember my dad asking me why my A- couldn’t have been an A. And I don’t fault him for that, it kept me on my toes and made me work hard. But I also remember it feeling like an intense amount of pressure.

I don’t want to be That Sports Parent. I really don’t. But I think it might be inevitable. Thankfully MJ will disembowel me if I get too out of hand, so it’s nice that I have her to correct me. Yet even if I’m not expressing it, I’ll be thinking it. I already have visions of Will as the star catcher hitting the game-winning homer to take the state title. Yes, I absolutely intend to live out my dreams of unfulfilled athletic glory through my son. And yes, I’m also aware of how pathetic and unfair that is.

But I think Will is going to ultimately thank me during his Cooperstown acceptance speech. The road to the Hall of Fame starts with Wiffleball!

“Dada, I don’t want you to go back to work. I want you to be here with me.”

That’s what Will said to me last week in the middle of a rare 11-day vacation during which I got to spend a bunch of time with him. It was really fun being there when he wakes up in the morning, cuddling with him, sleeping in and then watching movies and playing games all day. For more than a week we didn’t have a care in the world as we went out to breakfast, took the train into Boston and had ourselves a great time.

But justifiably, a 3.5-year-old’s mind wants to know why it can’t be like that all the time.

“I miss you Dada, you never take me anywhere.”

Nothing pulls at a working parent’s heartstrings like the feeling you’re not spending enough time with your kids. And with my extended commute and long hours of late, I certainly fall into that camp. So while I was on vacation I tried to make up for lost time. We visited relatives, saw Disney on Ice and took far too many trips to Friendly’s for ice cream sundaes.

But he continued to basically tell me he felt neglected and that we don’t do enough.

I was really stressing about it and feeling like a dick. Meanwhile MJ just stood there with a smirk on her face, wearing the all-too-familiar look that tells me she knows something I don’t. As you can imagine, it’s a look I’m well accustomed to at this point. When I asked her what her deal was, she hit me with something completely unexpected.

“He’s playing you,” she said.

What? My sweet boy? My angelic little man?? No way. No friggin way. The kid missed me. He missed his dad and he’s craving some father/son time. I promptly told my wife she doesn’t know what the hell she’s talking about, because I know my son and I’d be able to tell if he’s screwing with me.

Then I marched into Will’s room with my chest puffed out and decided I was going to make a late bid for Best Father Ever. I asked him if he wanted to go to the library, one of his favorite places. He said no. I offered to take him to the playground. He declined. I told him we could go for a walk. No dice. Disappointed but undaunted, I asked him what I could do for him to make him happy and feel loved.

“Can you take me to the toy store and buy me a toy?”

Honestly, I would’ve. But I couldn’t because I was financially tapped from buying Christmas presents and paying bills, and I wasn’t getting paid til the next week. So I told Will I couldn’t take him right now because I didn’t have the money.

“Oh,” he said with a look of contempt. “Then you should go back to work so they can pay you and you can buy me a toy.”

Dammit.

So I guess it’s only natural for him to wonder how they come out too.

It started Saturday when I told him Jordan was born and showed him a picture. He was ecstatic and wanted to hold her, because he recently held Amy and loved it. It was so cute because of how focused he was. He took his responsibilities as a baby-holder ULTRA seriously and was all business. It took major coaxing just to get him to loosen up and smile. But I digress…

So long story short, Will asked me how baby Jordan came out of Kelly’s stomach. I wasn’t sure how to answer, so I bought myself more time by asking him how he thinks babies are born.

“Baby Jordan came out of Auntie Kelly’s bellybutton,” he said.

We all have different parenting styles. For instance, some parents would be tempted to concur with Will’s explanation of childbirth and leave it at that. Others opt to make up a story that loosely resembles the truth but skips all the uncomfortable parts. I don’t fault the parents who go these routes. I get it. But ultimately, when faced with these situations, I’ve chosen a vastly different path.

Honesty. Brutal honesty.

“Not quite buddy,” I began gingerly. “Babies don’t come out of a bellybutton. Actually, they come out of a woman’s vagina.”

“WHAT?!? ‘Baginas??’ Stop it dad. You’re kidding.”

“Nope, I’m serious,” I said. “The mom pushes the baby out through her vagina. That’s how it happens.”

But apparently the mere notion of natural childbirth was decidedly unnatural to my son. He really didn’t believe me. So, faced with his continued curiosity and the fact that he doesn’t believe me, I did what all modern parents do when facing a quandary.

I asked for advice on Twitter.

I got some well-intentioned, run-of-the-mill advice at first but then someone suggested something very simple and brilliant. He said there are many videos of natural childbirth on YouTube, so why not show Will what I was talking about instead of inadequately attempting to describe it?

I know what some of you are thinking. You’re screaming “Are you crazy??? You’re going to show your 3.5-year-old a video of a partially nude woman giving birth?! That’s so inappropriate!” And that’s fine, you’re welcome to your opinions. I know my sister-in-law Melissa had the same reaction, and she’s a medical doctor. But I see absolutely nothing pornographic or inappropriate about childbirth, and therefore I see no reason not to show Will. It’s pretty much akin to breastfeeding. Yes Will sees a glimpse of a woman’s breast at times when she’s feeding a newborn, but so what? We tell him that’s how babies eat. And he accepts it, realizes it’s no big deal and moves on.

I want to be honest with my son and give him straight answers whenever possible. And this was one of those times when it made total sense. So, I showed him.

The video was of a woman engaged in a homebirth. She was pushing and grunting, and Will watched with a look that conveyed interest mixed with confusion. Then the woman got on her knees with her back to the camera, gave one final push and suddenly the baby’s head was visible. Will’s jaw dropped and he smiled, pointing to the baby. And for a moment, I was very proud of my son for being so adult, and for my parenting techniques and decision to show him.

“Do you have any questions bud?” I asked.

“Yeah dada. Why does the baby come out of the mama’s bum?”

Ruh-roh Shaggy.

“No no no, the baby didn’t come out of her bum. It came out of her vagina.”

“Um Dad, ACTUALLY it came out of her bum. Look.”

“Will, I know it kinda looks like the baby came out of her bum, but trust me. It didn’t. Babies come out of vaginas.”

“How do you know, Dad?”

“Because I watched when you were born and I would’ve remembered you coming out of Mom’s bum. Trust me, you came out the vagina.”

“But Dada, there’s pee in baginas. Did mom pee on me?”

At that point, far off in the distance, I thought I heard the distinct sound of a train derailing, crashing into a building and then careening over a cliff landing with a fiery explosion. Somehow, in the blink of an eye, I went from teaching my son a valuable life lesson to discussing ass play and golden showers. And the worst part is he’s obsessed with babies right now and he talks to anyone who will listen about babies falling out of bums and how mom peed on him.

Needless to say I’m dreading the inevitable call from his preschool teacher, and having to explain to her that my son and I were watching YouTube videos together and talking about vaginas and assholes.

That stupid stork is looking more and more appealing.

I remember the first time he smiled, crawled, cut his first tooth, talked, called me “Dada,” walked, got his hair cut, attended his first professional Boston sporting event and his first day of preschool. Checking off milestones as Will gets older is another way to mark the time, to look at progress and to celebrate. Because with each milestone crossed off the list, it’s one more achievement. Another joyous occasion. One more happy Kodak moment.

Until this week anyways.

Unlike some of the more routine milestones, there are other, less talked about ones. Gender specific milestones. And since Will is a boy, I’m talking about masculine milestones. Guy stuff. Like when Will was a baby and found his third leg for the first time, pulling and stretching it out like taffy. Or the first time a boy discovers the sheer joy of peeing outside in the woods. It really is eons better than the mundane toilet.

You might be noticing a trend here. All the manly milestones I’ve mentioned involve—well, man parts. Yup, the almighty penis. We love our own schlongs and we become slightly obsessed with them from an early age. And when it comes to Will’s latest milestone, the penis comes into play once more.

Feety pajamas are a wonderful thing. I still remember wearing them as a kid and absolutely loving them. Will is no different. We give Will a bath every night, but since the temperature has dropped lately, it’s not uncommon for him to climb out of the tub, towel off and then make a naked beeline for his room to change quickly into his pajamas. In a fit of shivers, Will hurriedly slips into his PJs and then climbs into bed, at which point we read him a few stories.

But a few nights ago, things went horribly wrong.

After Will’s bath and his scamper into the bedroom to put on dinosaur pajamas, MJ and I were in the other room while he got dressed. And that’s when we heard it—a blood-curdling scream that sent us both sprinting into his room. What we saw would’ve ordinarily made us laugh if we weren’t already so scared.

Will was crying and red-faced, hunched over in pain. His arms were inside his pajama sleeves as were his feet. But the front was still open and both of Will’s hands were cupping his twig and berries as he wailed. MJ was confused at first and kept asking him what was wrong. But I knew. Boy did I.

“Buddy,” I said as I bent down in pity. “Did you accidentally zip up your pee-pee?”

It was bound to happen. Little boys throw themselves into things with reckless abandon and a complete lack of fear. It’s only through bad experiences that painful lessons are learned. Every boy with front-zipping feety pajamas has learned that lesson at some point. And trust me, it’s one of those things you only have to experience once to remember forever.

Needless to say, getting into his PJs is no longer done in a haphazard or rushed manner. Quite to the contrary. After Will gets his arms and legs set, he cautiously pulls the zipper up with one hand. The other hand acts as a shield, protecting his package at all costs.

Granted, it’s tough because the Gouveia Curse is that of being so well-endowed it’s difficult NOT to get it caught in the zipper every time, but Will has learned to protect what’s important.

It started this week when he bit my father twice. Once it was hard enough to almost break skin. He was punished severely each time with a combination of time out, loss of his favorite toys and even a spanking when he copped an attitude after the fact and was seemingly unrepentant. It really took us by surprise because usually kids go through biting phases early in toddlerhood. But Will never did. And to bite my dad twice despite punishments had me miffed. But it turns out that was just the tip of the iceberg.

He bit another kid at preschool today.

The teacher told me what happened when I picked him up. They said he was playing with another boy and Will was pretending to be a dinosaur. Then he hauled off and bit another boy on the arm. Pretty much a carbon copy of what happened the times he bit my dad.

The rage that welled up inside me as Will’s teacher was telling me what happened was almost too much to contain. Seriously, I’m thankful there were plenty of people around because I would’ve given him the single biggest bare-assed spanking of all time. After all the talks we had about why biting is bad, how it hurts people, how mom and dad are disappointed whenever he does it. After all that, what does he do? He goes out and bites a kid.

Now before all the pseudo (and actual) child psychologists out there tell me he’s acting out because of all the big changes lately and blah blah blah, I get it. I understand big changes often bring about behavior that screams for attention. But he’s got our full attention. And the attention of my parents. This kid wants for nothing and yet he’s biting kids in class.

And since I’m being honest, it’s horribly demoralizing and humiliating to have the teacher tell you your kid is a biter. To have her point out older kids such as Will are usually well beyond that kind of thing, asking if everything is OK at home, etc. I wanted to hide under the nearest water table and never come out.

Seriously, I feel like I’m raising Hannibal Lecter. When I was helping him clean his room I kept worrying I’d find a human liver, fava beans and a nice bottle of chianti.

Not to mention we’re the new parents at the preschool and now we’re gonna be branded as the parents of the biter. I don’t care how thick you think your skin is, it’s really easy to crumble when it suddenly feels as though you’re the worst parents in the world when everyone finds out you’re raising a cannibal in training.

Ugh. We’re dealing with it as best we know how. I told him how disappointed I am in him. I asked him if he knows why biting is bad and he does, saying “Because it hurts people and that’s mean.” I’ve taken away his favorite toys and made it clear why he’s losing them and how good behavior can get them back. And even though I did get mad at him, I also told him I love him, we all make mistakes and that I know he’s a good boy. Other than that, I’m just not sure what else to do.

People always tell me to look for a silver lining. I guess if he ever becomes a professional soccer player whose plane crashes in the Andes, he’ll have no problem surviving. And, when he becomes an infamous serial killer in a couple of decades, perhaps I’ll stand to make a tidy profit when I sell the rights to his story.

Or this could mean he’s on the brink of becoming a famous sports broadcaster. Only time will tell.