Smells Like (Teen) Spirit

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“Come on, you know who to cheer for!”

My family still has one team in the World Cup: Argentina.

My U.S. went down after a good run, and my wife’s England lost after a listless performance. So that leaves my three children and their Argentina, a team run by legendary Diego Maradona and heavy with stars who look hungry to make a go of winning the World Cup, or the Mundial, as my kids call it.

My eldest is totally into it. We bought her Argentina shorts and a jersey with the name of her favorite player stamped on the back: Carlos Tevez. She wore the entire outfit that same day. And the next. Then at school to watch Argentina beat Greece on a big screen the teachers set up in the auditorium for the entire elementary school. Then she wore it the next day, well, because the country was in a celebratory mood. And for the next game several days later, when Argentina beat Mexico in the round of 16 to advance to the quarterfinals, with Tevez scoring twice. She put the outfit on again the next day, well, because the country was again in a celebratory mood.

I thought we’d best wash the kit. So I put it in the hamper.

She came to look for it the next morning and spotted it in the hamper, pulled it out and put it on, and said, “Hey, who put this in here? It’s not that dirty.”

I could smell the dedication.

Not really – she’s only seven. But that’s at least a taste, well, a whiff of what it’s like to live in Argentina during the World Cup. It is the dedication and the love for a team that is playing well and playing together with passion. A team that has good chances to go on to the final in another 10 days.

So we washed the outfit while my daughter slept at night.

Out of Mind

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“Hey, the house is clean now. You can’t argue with that.”

My father had his methods for preparing the house for dinner guests when we were kids.The guests would be due within the hour and somehow he’d finally realize that the house was a mess. So he’d make a sweep of the dining room, the living room, the kitchen and any other common living quarters and pick up any loose toys, skateboards, bike parts, basketballs, baseballs, jackets, shirts, shoes, books, notebooks and backpacks.

He’d make trip after trip with a determined look on his face to lug it out of sight and into our rooms – the three boys and the two girls’ – and onto our beds and floors and out of his mind.

He’d shut the doors despite our protests that if he put it away properly instead of storming about then the house would be clean and organized. At least until tomorrow.

He chose to storm.

“Dad!”

Now as a father with three kids and dinner guests on the way, I face the task of cleaning up. I survey the living room and try to catch a glimpse of the floor underneath a carpet of clothes, toys, books and paper. I can’t. In a corner stands a toy kitchen with all the contents seemingly displaced around it by a hurricane. Where to start? The toy kitchen, yes, the toy kitchen. I take a step forward in my bare feet and stand on a marble underneath the rug. Ouch! I fall onto a heap of jackets on the sofa and a doll underneath that screams, “Mama!” I jump up and stumble on my son’s shoes and topple again onto the other end of the sofa and Buzz Lightyear, who shouts, “This is an intergalactic emergency!”

It sure is.

Then the fury takes over. I collect everything by the bushel and heave it into the kids’ rooms and close the doors to muffled protests of, “Dad!”

I choose to storm.

Table for Two

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My wife took the two eldest kids out to the movies, leaving me with the rascal. That’s the youngest. She’s two. She’s cute. And she’s cheeky. Smile at her and she’ll smile back broadly and then stick her tongue out at you. A Pippi Longstocking in the making, unconventional and assertive. A right pain in the bum.

So I took her out to dinner.

We went to El Sanjuanino down the street. In the door, past the full tables and down the stairs. A table for two at a favorite joint for empanadas. It was still early so we had the downstairs all to ourselves.

The waiter brought me a beer and her a Fanta. I took a sip.

“You like?” the rascal asked.

“I sure do.”

She took a sip.

“Do you like it?” I asked

“I really like.”

Two beef empanadas arrived for her and a tamale for me. I took a bite.

“You like?” the rascal asked.

“I sure do.”

She took a bite.

“Do you like yours?”

“I really like.”

We finished our dinner and dessert was tempting, but I thought I’d best not test my luck with the rascal. So I paid the bill and we walked upstairs and across the crowded floor. She smiled at people admiring her, the adorable little girl. She kept her tongue in.

We walked home and went up the elevator and climbed into our pajamas. It was Friday so we turned on the TV to chill out, me thinking she’ll be asleep in no time and then I can have a much deserved early night. Easy peasy.

“Why do we call you the rascal anyway?” I asked her as she lay on the bed next to me.

She kept watching TV.

An hour went by and I was drowsy and nodding.

And the rascal?

She was jumping up and down on the bed.

“Go to sleep!” I said.

She stopped bouncing and looked at my drooping eyes and tired face and said, “Night, night, daddy.”

Then she resumed her bouncing…