I slide into safety, taking cover between the bushes. Having escaped enemy fire, I catch my breath and wait to ambush my assailant. A quick peek out, when I don’t hear footsteps. But I force myself to hold still. This war is won with patience, not bravado. I clutch two guns, both cocked and ready. From my vantage point I have an excellent view of the field, the hill between the houses, even the back door. I have everything covered. It's a perfect plan.
Minutes pass. A fly lands on my nose but I don’t dare move a
muscle. I have to be ready for anything. But nothing is happening. Maybe the plan is not so perfect.
Slowly, against my better instincts, I leave the safety of
the bushes. Arms raised, wielding my pistols, I climb the hill to the front yard. My ears perked,
my eyes open. I swing around, wildly, my arms like hands on a clock. But there’s no sign of my attacker.
I creep to the maple tree in the front yard. I clear the treehouse then step down, allow myself to relax. Then, I make a crucial mistake. I wander out of the shaded safety of the trees to the street--no man's land--where I hear a snicker. I look up. There, I spot my pint-size opponent, fifty yards away, rifle in hand. I hang my head in shame.
I’ve been outsmarted, outmaneuvered, my impatience has doomed me once again. But luck is on my side, as his cartridge drops from his rifle. He looks down, then back to me.
I smile.
With only one option left, I go full Braveheart on him. I charge, pistols extended, Tarrantino-style as my feet slap the asphalt. Neighbors take notice. In the confusion, a couple of the neighborhood kids join in, running behind me. I look left, then right, as one kid’s face is covered full in war paint, the other wears a towel around his shoulder, with… one boxing glove? I shake it off. There’s no time for questions. It's go time.
The gleam in my opponent’s eyes turns to surprise, fear, panic. He rushes to retrieve the cartridge as I bear down on him. Twenty feet… ten…
Just when I think I have him, my forty-eight inch target stands tall. My first dart
whizzes by his ear, the second falls short at his feet. I keep gunning,
reloading as I approach, until I hear the snap of the cartridge and he takes
aim like a dueler at high noon. I shoot again, but it’s too late.
I’m hit.
He nails me between the eyes. I let out a wail, stumbling, my arms out, pistols skidding along the street. My opponent shows no mercy. A second shot finds my ribs, and
I crumple to the street, mortally wounded, staring up the lazy clouds passing
through the evening sky.
I stammer over some last words as my assailant takes aim and looms over me, when my reprieve comes from the house.
“Honey, can you take the baby? I’m trying to fix dinner.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
I roll over, amidst a collection of Nerf darts and oil stains.
I get to my feet and wipe myself off. “Well, I gotta go.”
My son lowers the rifle. I hand the pistols to the other two
kids. I know they’ll take good care of my weapons. “Until next time.”
As I hobble into the house, defeated but smiling, I’m
handed a bundle of pink and told I have a leaf in my hair. A wide-eyed munchkin squeals at me. I make a face, she giggles. I tell her about the battle with her brother. She grabs my nose.
Being the dad of an eight-year old boy and an eight-month
old daughter is a great thing. It’s also very confusing at times.
It means waging an all out Nerf war outside, then coming in to
read about purple monkeys and bubble gum trees. It means being careful not to
get bike chain grease on the pretty pink onesie. It means wrestling on a
trampoline then gently pushing the Little Tikes swing. It means trying to keep
the baby from eating your UNO cards.
But at times, when it all collides, when my wild man eight-year
old stops and hugs his sister, when she lights up with a smile as he dances for
her, it’s not confusing at all.
It’s easy.
