Week 33: Citroën C4 Rally

A rally in automotive circles is a competition on public roads instead of race tracks.

Similarly, my two-year-old often runs a circuit in my house, screaming along on public thoroughfares of carpet and tile in a course he has designed, back and forth, back and forth, feet paddling along at dizzying speeds. Sometimes he is joined by his preschool brother.

This, my friends, is a toddler rally.

Toddler rallies erupt spontaneously, in the house, at a story hour in the library, and, while illegal in most states, in restaurants.

They can be two-way runs to point A, turnaround, point B, turnaround, point A, etc., or, if at a house featuring a circular path like that at Baby G's grandmother's house where the kitchen sports two distinct openings to the rest of the house, a continuous run, around and around and around.

Circular toddler rallies usually have a giggle or repeated noise that is presented at the same spot on each lap, say as the toddler racer passes the loveseat. Consistency, you see, is a hallmark of a toddler rally. Hall marks, however, are consistent with a toddler finding a crayon under the couch. Different sport.

Toddler rallies are at their best at toddler gatherings such as birthday parties, where three or more toddlers, without warning, begin running a course. I don't know how a toddler wins a toddler rally, but the universally agreed upon closing of a rally is a toddler smashing into something full-headfirst-tilt.

As a spectator sport, toddler rallies are both entertaining and infuriating to watch, especially for those in the crowd  uncomfortable with a sport that openly flaunts the law. Toddlers, you see, seldom obtain the proper paperwork and authorization for these rallies, giving them the mystique of an illegal street race. Only they can be much louder.

Spectator etiquette, by the way, requires comments about how the racer will "sleep well tonight" or how he or she is "burning off energy." Again, consistency is a hallmark of toddler rallies.

Like in any race, crashes at toddler rallies can be spectacular.

But this is the world of the Fast and the Furious.

Generally it is the parents that end up furious, but that is usually only after a sibling trips up a rally racer.

The toddler, however, remains fast. Until he crashes.

Then he is fast asleep.

Either way, however, he's fast.



Photo of the Hot Wheels Citroën C4 Rally courtesy of Phil Pekarcik. While it looks like a pic of an actual Citroën C4, that picture really is of my tiny Hot Wheels diecast. 

Week 32: '67 Pontiac Firebird 400

I had a strange thing happen to me today.

I picked up my son from preschool, and turning out of the parking I remembered pulling out of the parking lot at my high school as part of driving lessons.

You have to understand: "remembered" does not do justice to this experience. This memory was suddenly, completely, absolutely there, after 32 years, like Luke Skywalker absolutely yet unexpectedly seeing a hologram of Princess Leia asking for Obi Wan's help -- one moment, he's messing with a droid, the next he's seeing a little lady. Except my experience was not miniaturized (and it is my wife who has the Droid [phone]).*

The feel of the steering wheel, the nervousness and excitement I had experience, the unfamiliar tension of the wheel as it turned, the actual emotions of being 16, clicked on and lighted up my mind, not gradual like a compact fluorescent but immediate like an old-school incandescent.

I do not know what triggered the memory.

I didn't even know my noggin had retained that memory.

Listen, I have no idea.

Today's picture is a muscle car from days of youthful yore, the kind of car that was much more common on the roads when I was learning to drive, the kind of car on which we all wanted to learn to drive, the kind of car I might have even seen in the school parking lot.

From days when the term "burnout" was a 50/50 split between setting tires spinning and someone who probably wouldn't finish school but was too mellow to care. (I understand "burnout" is still used for both, but when I was in school, it was part of the everyday lexicon.)

From days when a 1967 Pontiac was classic, but not yet "classic," as it was only 12 years old.

While I miss the cars, I do not miss those days -- they weren't full of fond memories -- but something nonetheless triggered that driving school memory completely independent of good or bad, completely independent of willful nostalgia. The return to driving school lasted for a good 10 to 12 seconds and then was gone.

Leaving a trail of smoke from the tires as it drifted away back into the past.




*As terrible as the Droid joke is, I thankfully scratched the reprise of "little lady" to refer to my wife, which even I could not do.


Smokin' Pontiac Firebird photo courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.


Car part of the Hot Wheels 2010 New Models collection.

Week 31: '10 Aston Martin DBS

I know very little about Aston Martins other than Sean Connery drove one in the early James Bond movies.

This newer model, like its Bond predecessor, looks cool and built for performance, speed, and comfort.

Also, the silver and red reminds me of colors on a school's sport jersey.

Of course this leads me to middle school baseball, which began yesterday for my son, who is in fifth grade.

When it comes to sports, my son and I are not Aston Martins. We are not cool, nor built for speed nor performance. I am seldom comfortable.

There is still time for him.

We aren't out of shape, and we love the outdoors, play catch and Frisbee and so forth, but I never played team sports, and, unfortunately, my son hasn't been indoctrinated into early baseball/football training like other kids on the team.

[Deep breath] I hope none of the other dads on my son's team read my blog: 

Going to my son's baseball practice stresses me out. 

I may be breaking guy code by admitting this, but when I'm at practice, I feel nervous and awkward. Most of the other dads at practice are so ... sporty. I feel self conscious. 

Meaning, as a guy, I stand around pretending to not be self conscious in the least, all the while praying the  ball doesn't roll to me, requiring me to throw it.

Watching my son, who does just fine, by the way, also makes me nervous. While the other kids seem to be firing the baseball at 100 miles an hour with in-the-glove precision, my son isn't. He drops the ball. His throws fall short. He doesn't quite get the baseball swagger correct.

In short, he is a little version of me, and I feel guilty, like I inadvertently set him up.

I have a difficult time watching for the same reason I couldn't watch tight-rope circus walkers as a kid. I just worried too much they might fall.

This is as much disclosure as I can muster on a public space, but I feel relieved, like I just stepped out of some type of bullpen confessional.

I've admitted it. Going to my son's baseball practice STRESSES ME OUT.

Which is why my son must not read this blog.

See, I fully believe in the benefits of playing team sports, and I heartily encourage him to participate, practice, stumble, learn, have fun, and remain confident that he has tried his hardest and is just fine.

I also believe you should be comfortable in your own skin, and accept everybody has strengths and weaknesses.

I believe that, and while I am able to attain that transcendence in other areas of my life, I'm not there when it comes to baseball, basketball, football, soccer, volleyball, or any other competitive sport.

But that is my issue, and one I'm working on fixing.

To him, I must be calm and cool and confident.

Like Bond.

 And I will be.

Hot Wheels Aston Martin photograph courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Aston Martin part of the 2010 Hot Wheels All Stars collection.

... and I really don't throw that bad.

Week 30: 1955 Chevrolet Nomad

Chevy called this car, back in the day, "The Hot One." Little did the Nomad realize how one day a station wagon would become a quintessential symbol of uncool until mercifully rescued by the minivan in late 80s and 90s. 

Thanks, Minivan - Signed, Station Wagon. XXXOO.

But I suppose that is the nature of hip.

I could easily segue into a discussion of aging, or of being in my 20s in the 1980s, or how we see ourselves vs. how our kids see us, but that seems too easy. No, instead, I want to talk about...

sweat pants.

Man, I hate sweat pants. Some say they're comfortable, but those things have never been hip, not even during the grunge days that were even able to make flannel shirts hip. Sweat pants. They even sound disgusting. Sweat pants.

That is about as appealing as Stink Shirt.

Maybe you like sweat pants, and that is fine. Many people do. I wear them at the gym, but I treat them like a pair of safety goggles or a cummerbund* -- I'm wearing them for an extremely limited set of occasions.

Which is why my kids' love of sweat pants kills me.

Four year old Racer A would wear sweat pants every day. He is old enough to grab clothes out of his drawer for himself to get dressed, and he always grabs sweat pants.

Even if I say, "Don't grab sweat pants."

To him, that only means, don't grab the red sweat pants. Grab the blue ones.

I don't expect a four year old to have a fashion sense. But seriously, a dress shirt with sweat pants? Geez.

And those red sweat pants.

Where did those things come from? I don't know, but they feel omnipresent.

He can lose one of every pair of socks he owns, every toy, shirt, and one shoe of every pair of shoes eventually end up under his bed, so why don't those awful red sweat pants ever disappear? I'm afraid to get rid of them, for fear they'll show on his dresser like some haunted relic from a horror movie. They truly are awful. Those sweat pants hate me.

And I can't give one logical reason to him why he shouldn't wear them, especially if we're staying in for the day.

Baby G is the same way, except he doesn't have a red pair of sweat pants.

I get him dressed, and I hear, "Nho, nho" when I try to put him in a pair of jeans. Sweat pants, though? A big smile and "Daaaaa!"

I get it. They are soft and comfortable, and I'm probably ridiculous in my contempt for those things, but I can't help it.

I hate sweat pants.

I really hate red sweat pants.

So, I let my kids wear sweat pants at home, and even for casual outings, but it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Okay. I'm glad I got that off my chest.

I'm wondering now, however, if I shouldn't have went with the aging 80s hipster theme for the blog.

We might still see ourselves as a 1955 Nomad, even though our kids ...

Oh well, There's always next week.

*If you think i spelled it incorrectly, you're wrong. The proper spelling for that weird wrap-around waist thing that primarily shows up at weddings is "cummerbund," not "cumberbund," in the same way that the proper spelling for those disgusting, belt loopless pants that should never ever be worn by adults in public outside of the gym are "sweat pants" not "sweet pants."

Hip, non-sweat pantsy photo of my Hot Wheels Nomad courtesy of Phil Pekarcik.

Nomad part of the 2010 Hot Wheels Hot Auction collection.