Honeysuckle

The backyard again. We’re outside, pushing around the mowers, watching planes drift by and otherwise just enjoying the evening. Suddenly, Simon rushes over to the fence and snatches a fistful of honeysuckle.

He looks like he knows what to do with it too. He runs up and hands me a sprout.

“You know about honeysuckle?” I ask him and he nods with a big grin on his face. It takes me a second, because it’s been years and years since I’ve properly drawn out a honeysuckle stem. But I get it, and my son waits patiently, his mouth open and hanging tongue stifling his giggle. 

“Okay, ready?”

“Uh huh.”

I slide it out, just so that little droplet of liquid pops out of the end. I set it on his tongue and he squeals with excitement. Then he takes off running around the yard, around the bush and through the swing set. A couple laps and he’s back, tongue out, waiting for more. The second time we both have some, and then we both take off running and laughing.

It’s one of the best parts about being a parent, is reliving that magic of childhood. Honeysuckle, fireflies, the morning dew of the grass on barefeet. It’s a good time, for sure. 

My Wife, The Zookeeper...

I can be a little neurotic when it comes to the safety of my son. And I'll admit, that some of my thoughts and maybe even a few of my actions are irrational. A tiny fraction still perhaps tread the tightrope that marks the borders of sanity. But my intentions are good, and yet for all my efforts, my wife's actions carelessly fly in the face of safety and sense...

For instance: Sunday 

We were winding down as another weekend drew to a close. My son and I had enjoyed one of our best outings to date. With my wife needing some quiet time for school work I had taken Simon to a nearby soccer field at the middle school, one surrounded by a 10 foot chain link fence, watchtowers, and security checkpoints. Just kidding, but it was fenced. After surveying the soft, sprawling grass and the gentle hills I pluncked him down between the two goals and let him have at it.

“Go ahead, I said as he looked up at me with wide-eyed amazement. “Walk it out.”

It was such a relief. Just to watch him giggle and wobble around, even occasionally fall without having to worry about steps, concrete, tree roots, or sharp corners, or loping dogs that don’t yield for little guys who are new to being upright. I looked on with a grin, pondering the scene as a light breeze drifted over us.

I am a genius…. I thought.

Back at home—where no one mistakes me for a genius— I ran Simon’s bath, still smiling about my worry free day when I peeked out of the window into the backyard. What is that? I leaned my forehead to the glass, focusing on the opossum sniffing around near the compost pile.

I called to my wife, who ran to the window, and we gazed out at our visitor wondering how he got in the fenced in back yard, and more importantly, how he was going to get out. I promised to open the gate after bath, shivering at his long tail slithering in the grass.  

And I thought that was the end of it.

So after bath, as routine dictates, I handed my son off to my wife and then headed back to the bathroom for my turn. Once again, I peeked out again at my friend, still foraging in the backyard in the gathering dusk. He’ll find his way out eventually, I thought. But he didn’t. Stepping out of the shower I glanced out of the window to see that the freaking opossum was still there and getting comfortable. And he had company. A Deer or a raccoon, you ask? Nope, my wife, standing there pointing and waving, holding my son and laughing like a trip to the zoo.

I wiped the fog from the window, my eyes widening at the site of my wife edging closer to the crouching varmint, his red eyes narrowing like lasers on my son, his tail slashing like a whip. The moonlight glistened from his fangs. He growled and hissed and I watched helplessly as my wife inched closer towards the snarling beast. See below...

A Chillingly Accurate Depiction of The Scene

Okay, he was maybe 15 feet away and still just sort of grazing. I didn’t see any fangs and there was no hissing, or snarling. But still, not the point. I jerked the window opened to put a stop to this madness, adjusting my towel and swallowing thoughts of rabies, infection, vertical jumping abilities of opossums.

“What are you doing?”

My wife looked up smiling. “He’s cute.”

Cute, I sighed, watching my son bounce with excitement. I couldn’t let this get out of hand, the next thing you know she’ll name him Opie and he’ll be sleeping at our feet.

“If you feed him, he’ll just come back.” I blinked, shaking my head, remembering that I was talking to someone who liked to say We should get a goat! at least once a week. My words were more encouragement than a deterrent

My son squealed and pointed. I grappled with the horrid images of worst case scenarios flickering in my head. Opossums can’t jump, can they? Finally, she opened the gate, coaxed him out, and then turned for the house. I breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone survived....this time.

I’m glad our son has her to feed his imagination. Little journeys of exploration and discovery are good and I may skim past all of that on my path to safety. It's a balancing act, and have to be careful to keep the scale from tipping too far in either direction. Me with the bubble wrap and helmet, her with the critter petting in the woods.

But as much as I may loosen up over time, possum petting is probably not my foreseeable future.

Swingin!

We get lots of hand me downs. From clothing to toys, books, and even bottles, we’ve had all sorts of things dropped off at our house. This is a good thing, and I'm not complaining. Although I do draw the line at "gently used" diapers. 

Like Macklemore said, I'll wear your grandpa's clothes.  Through our son's first year we've had the good fortune to buy only a handful of outfits and one pair of boots. Very expensive boots, as the money saved in clothes is counteracted by my wife's love of all things Pottery Barn. But I'm de-stressing, uh digressing here. Some of these hand me downs are practically new, and nice. I almost feel obligated to tell people that his name brand sneakers and shirts are second hand. We're not that couple that will be buying our son any Nike sneakers anytime soon.

So last weekend when our neighbors across the street offered up the swing set that’s been sitting unused in their backyard, I readily accepted. I’d made the mistake of putting Simon’s little blue swing in the tree in the front yard, which meant that every time we went to put him in the car he’d point and yell and bounce like a monkey.  I'd even taken to shielding the swing from his view to speed things along.  You do what you gotta do...

Anyway, the swing is a welcomed addition to our backyard. We made plans for the four of us to haul it across the street, which when discussed on a Friday night over a round of beers, sounded like a piece of cake. 

When Sunday rolled around and I stumbled upon the massive, wooden set, I lifted one side and knew immediately we were going to need reinforcements. That or a forklift. For a while, we all just kind of stood and looked at it, wondering how this was going to work.  I was ready to pack it in when our neighbor’s husband grabbed the tools and gloves. 

A few screws loosened and we broke it down, Carrying the top part first, I held back tears as the splinters thrust into my palm. I don't need no stinking gloves.  I fought as the frame swayed in my Nancy Boy grasp.  But I trudged onward, like I was on a religious mission, carrying a wooden crucifix across the country.  Kind of a stretch, I only had to go around to my back yard and my wife helped me out with my end.

We made it to my backyard and then went back to retrieved the base, where the sliding board connects. After some tinkering and reassembling, I had myself a swing set. It needs a little sanding and stain, but it’s solid and it works. Much better than those tetanus shot aluminum sets we had in the seventies. 

Once the set was reassembled and in position, we got Simon in his seat and swung away.
Now I look out the kitchen window and smile. If a swing set doesn’t make me feel like a dad, nothing will.