Tale of Two Dads

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.

I Won....Wait.

I was all geared up to play in a charity basketball tournament over the weekend. Our first game was on Saturday morning and  I showed up with a bounce in my step and a hop in my shoes. I don't play basketball as much as I used to so when I get the chance, I try to make the most of it.

We won. Which was great. By the time I got home I was icing my ankle and waiting for my wife and kid to get back from the park. Ugh. By then the park sounded painful just thinking about it. While I’m not old, I’m uh, mature. Okay not mature either. And if this post seems familiar, that's because I don't learn.

But I’m in decent shape. And like I said, when I’m out there on the court, I'm all Mr. Hustle. It’s afterwards that I have a little trouble. So with our second game at three, I rolled off the couch around two and pulled on my jersey without quite so much zeal as the first time around.

We won again. Come on people, how can you lose to us? We're old. Most of us anyway. But once again age triumphed. Another victory. Great. That put us in the championship game on Sunday. Wonderful. 

Sunday morning. I staggered down the hallway, cursing Dr.Naismith, his stupid sport, and the whole month of March in general. My back hurt. My family missed me. I hunted down the ibuprofen and washed it down with coffee. Eat your Wheaties, kids.

Off to the game. We had about eight players on our team. Median age I’d put at about 40. Enter our competition. Youthful and spry, armed with headphones and aloof smirks so often found on twentysomethings. They were 15 deep, with swagger and fans and great attitudes. We had Bengay.

I'm kidding. No one had Bengay. And once we started running layups I forgot all of my AARP issues. (Seriously, my stepmom just gave me the issue with Dylan on the cover. Kind of embarrassing when company stops over). The buzzer sounded and we tipped off.

I’ll make it short. They beat us soundly. I found myself defending their best player. Dude was quick. He had me on skates out there and I was just trying to stay in front of him. Years ago I would have been all for the challenge, yapping and being an all around putz. (I don't really use the term "putz" but I thought it fit the theme here.). But instead of talking trash I made jokes about how bad my ankles were going to hurt after the game. 

Realization number one hit me like an elbow to the jaw: I’ve become that old man, the one you can’t rattle because, well, he really doesn’t give a damn.

After the game I congratulated the victors and limped out of the gym. Smiling.

The day was gorgeous. I put down the windows and stretched out my back. I was actually glad that a basketball game was over.

This is new territory for me.

It was as I was pulling into the driveway that realizations two and three dawned on me. I'm turning forty this year. Yikes. But the bigger thing that I realized was why it no longer hurts to lose. Because I hadn't lost. I've won the most important prize that one can attain.

Inside I gave my wife a sweaty kiss, remembering the day that she told me to sit down. She had news. She was pregnant. I’d just come home from playing basketball that day too. That day changed my life. 

But there was no big announcement. She was off to run errands. When my son woke up I was showered and changed and ready to hangout. He seemed happy to have me around again. I was happy not to be out playing basketball. 

We went for a walk in the woods near our house. Him with his mower and me with my creaky ankles. Our shadows lay before us. His bouncing along, looking at everything. Mine more deliberate, watching. A hand extended to his little head. That’s when yet another realization fell over me like the light breeze in my hair.

My son doesn’t care if I’m not the best on the court. He doesn’t care if I shot 3-7 from the foul line. He might've taken issue if I hadn’t showered but what really mattered to him was that my shadow was right there with his. That we were hanging out together on a gorgeous Spring day.

We stopped so he could inspect a stick, then an ant. Some moss on a rock. All the while I kept reaching out and touching the top of his head. He looked at me with that squinty smile of his.

"Daddy," he said. I smiled. We started off for the house when he stopped and turned back to me again, reaching.

"Carry me?” 

It's a face you can't deny. So I bent down, my back protesting the movement and my ankles squeaking like a rusty door hinge.

“Sure buddy.”

Best trophy I've ever held.

What a Weekend!

Over the weekend, our son met his Grandparents from Texas and as always it was a memorable visit full of laughter, memories, and tears….from the laughing.

It was somewhat surreal at first, being in the same room with my son and my dad.  The last of the three Fannings, we share dna, blue eyes, and it looks like my son has the large family feet. As the patriarch of the family, we looked to Grandpa to lead the way. 

But we had to be careful at times, some of his tactics were, uh, a bit dated.  Sure, he raised me, but at times I had to wonder.  Take for instance, dinnertime. When we sat down to eat and our little guy threw a fit, my dad jumped up and insisted we continue.  He would take care of it.

It quickly became obvious that his children’s sing songs weren’t exactly children friendly, or even songs at all. With lyrics involving ladies of the night, whisky, and well, I stopped him at that. 

“What, you loved this one when you were little.”

We hoped to fair better with Grandma, a true crime author by trade.  She took over with the singing and playing, but I was sure to keep her from the story telling, where some serious harm could be done.

Modern amenities were lost on my dad, who didn’t quite understand why there was padding in the baby tub.  “We just put you in a rusted metal bucket.”  Perhaps this explains why I tried to swallow my tongue.

Other highlights included:

Watching him try to find the crank on the baby swing. 

Laughing as my wife mentioned getting a pool membership in the near future.  My dad and I once went rafting in the creek at the park.

Explaining the finer parts of buying kid toys at the thrift shop.  Don't buy the pacifiers.

My dad asking what was in the back seat of my car. Dad, it’s a car seat.

And then there was the Baby Bjorn.  While I explained how it worked, my dad commented how he loved Matt Damon in the trilogy.  The Bjorn Identity. Coming to suburban theatres everywhere.

But the best part of the weekend was the evenings; after dinner, sitting in the living room and reminiscing on the past.  My wife made sure to let them know just which of my childhood habits I haven't quite outgrown, (Mostly relating to my love of cereal).  As always with my dad and stepmom, I laughed, I learned, and I was entertained.  I was one lucky kid.

I always come away from our time together with a renewed sense of purpose, and inspired to be more like the man who raised me. I've said many times before that I hope to be anything near the father that he is to me.

Now I just need to talk my wife into getting a raft.