The Storyteller

My wife is a wonderful teacher, a natural nurturer, and a most excellent storyteller. Of course I’ve always known that my son is lucky to have her for a mom but every now and again I see or catch her doing something that brings it all back home.

We were hanging out at the local kid’s museum, blowing off some steam on a rainy Sunday afternoon in the barn house area. Simon was bouncing off the walls, hopping off the tractor and milking the cows and just kind of all over the place when he stumbled upon some books near the window ledge.

He spotted one of his all-time faves, Duck on a Bike and wanted Mom to read it. (Let me say here that I love how my kid stops mid-sprint at the sight of a familiar book, like he’s running into good friend unexpectedly. It's warms my inner-nerd). 

Mom’s especially good at reading Duck because she does all the character’s voices and even remembers what voice to do for each character, something I can never manage, it’s just a mess when I read characters, but anyway…

So they took a seat in the back and settle in. Mom read as a gale force of kids climbed and yelled and ran wild around them. Not far into the book, a little girl took notice. She was maybe a year or two older than Simon, lingering around and inching up closer. She had a book in her hands and was craning her head to listen to my wife’s well-crafted performance of Duck on a Bike. 

After a while, Simon got distracted and hopped off my wife's lap. There were cows to tend to, corn to shuck, and besides, he'd heard this story a million times anyway. But the girl remained, and that first-grade school teacher part of my wife couldn't just stop reading, not with a little girl standing on her tippy toes, looking on like, well, I suppose you may as well go on and finish. 

So the teacher plunged ahead with the rest of the story, in those voices, for this eager little girl trying not to look interested. And while Simon did his thing on the tractor I kept an eye on the two of them, the girl now scooted up beside my wife and taking in the pages and voices of Duck and all his friends in the book. At my wife, in the middle of all this, over there performing, doing her best cow impression and seemingly unaware she was completely making this little wide-eyed girl’s day.

At the end of the story, the girl simply presented the book she was holding, and again my wife obliged. By now the little girl’s grandmother had arrived on the scene, winded and thankful after a quick search for her missing granddaughter.

My wife finished the girl’s book. I'm not even sure what book it was, but it was great. The girl’s grandma thanked her and they both went about their day. But I shook my head, realizing that Simon got those wonderful readings—the kind that makes a little girl stand in line to hear—every single day of his life.

Lucky kid.

'Tis the Seasons...

The other morning, through a smear of yogurt, my kid, with his hair still fuzzy and wild from a good night’s sleep, was asking about balloons. More specifically, his You're the Best! balloon from months ago that I tossed in the trash because it lay in a heap under the table like a wet plastic grocery bag.

“Well, your birthday’s coming up, I’m sure you’ll get a balloon then, right?”

“And presents?”

“Yeah, you’ll probably score some gifts too."

His gaze wandered to where our tree had stood, now a barren corner and a stark reminder that Christmas is over.

"We can put them under the tree?"

“Well, uh, you see…”

And there’s the dilemma. Where I’m happy the kid enjoyed Christmas, he’s having a tough time letting it go. My wife said they pulled into the driveway the other evening and he said the house looked sad because we "put Christmas away.”

An unpardonable offense in his eyes. He wants to watch The Grinch. He wants presents under the tree. He wants to sing Jingle Bells, or, some form of it anyway… Omaha, it is to ride, in a one horse open….Hey!

We just might have a Christmas theme for his January birthday.

Now, I’m not some jerk who doesn't want his son to enjoy himself. I'm okay with a slight extension to the holiday season. We traveled this year for Christmas, so he wasn’t at home to enjoy the tree and the lights. So fine, we left everything up stayed merry and stretched things out a bit. While other people were pitching trees to the curb, ours glowed in full glory. 

I’m no longer one of those rip-it-all-down and be done with it on the 26^th type of guys. I don’t let the shopping season or commercials dictate what holiday to celebrate. Truth be told we could all use a little Christmas cheer all year around.

But…

After a while, wouldn't it get...weird, not too mention brown....if we had the tree up all year? And again, I've made some concessions already. I’ve left some lights up, white ones, on the fence post out front, and there's a snowman...

But these two, both of them, wife and kid. They want full tilt Yule tide. 

So I'm branded the Grinch.

Fine. But to me, part of what makes Christmas special is the wait. If it was here all year then it would not only get weird, and brown. It would lose some of it’s luster. But try explaining this at my house, while you're reading Little Blue Truck's Christmas and everyone's wondering why the little tree on the last page won't light up. *Hint, it's the batteries, because it's JANUARY...

I’m sure hope this will all pass. I’m guessing with his birthday and all he’ll get back into the groove of things and Jingle Bells will give way to the Easter Bunny. Or maybe by Halloween we’ll have him ready to go trick or treating, singing spooky songs and getting into the spirit of things. 

Maybe he can go as Santa Clause. 

Marathon Man

As any good distance runner would tell you, it’s all about the journey.

Or maybe they wouldn’t. I could’ve just plucked that out of thin air. But on the eve of The Virginia Ten Miler, which passes right by our street, my son was all set to run his own race.

The Amazing Mile is a kids race downtown. And the Amazing Quarter Mile is the grueling test of endurance that kicks it all off. When we signed our kid up a few months back, I knew I had to get serious about training. We built up his stamina, running laps around the house after bathtime under the pretense that it was an innocent game of chase.

But oh no my friend. It was all about the training. We slogged through the sessions, chasing the dogs, training on the hill in the woods behind our house, in the backyard. He took his race seriously, or once again, maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just likes to run because he’s two and all. Something like that.

The rains came hard on the big day. Not that our little runner cared. He had his eye on the prize, or at least on a bag of pretzels, it’s tough to say. He wasn’t going to let a little rain dampen his spirits. , rain or no rain, he was ready to rip and run.

There was a nice turnout. Kid’s hopping all over the place. Big kids. Four and five year olds all over the place, huffing and spitting. I pulled my little guy to the side. “You okay, Champ?”

He stomped in a puddle. I took that as yes.

After some group photos—the flash of the bulbs cracking like a storm. (Well, mostly phones and tablets, but you get my drift). I could see my guy was shaken up. This was his first race, so he wasn’t used to all the media types hanging around. I knew I was going to have to get him focused.

He has this little nervous tick where he licks his lips. And he was looking like a lizard out there. The crowd was a bit overwhelming for him. I realized our mistake. We’d been training in the wilderness. Just the two of us and the dogs. I hadn’t prepared him for such a hostile environment. The crowd was getting to him. As a trainer it was my job to get my horse back on track.

“Hey, let’s take a walk.”

We ducked the crowd, heading for the little mounds near the parking lot, on the grass. The familiarity of grass and mud seemed to soothe his jumpy nerves. He laughed and smiled and took the hills. 

Then we heard the National Anthem. Go time.

He was running with Mom, a tactic I hadn’t prepped for but we were winging it now. The whole night seemed to be full of surprises. So I went and found a spot to cheer.

The race got underway and I feared he was going to be trampled. Kids pushing and kicking their way to the front. A redhead blasted by at breakneck speed. But I wasn’t worried. The ones that come out flailing usually burn out the quickest. We had a whole quarter mile marathon to run here so let him tire out.

Through the bodies I saw them. My wife and little guy chugging along. He had a look of complete determination on his cute little face, and I knew my training had done him well. I waved to them. He stopped and waved back. Mom and son pushed on, trudging through the elements in a test of endurance.

A quarter mile is a battle of wills. You have to want it, and as I saw my team round the bend and head down the home stretch, I swelled with pride.

They made it. He didn’t win. It didn’t matter. It was fun. He enjoyed himself. I picked up my champion, wet with rain, sweat, tears…that is rain on his butt, right?

Just Take A Second...

I’m by no means a perfect parent. I have plenty of impatient, un-blogworthy moments. I get frustrated, baffled, and feel overwhelmed as I try to navigate the waters of fatherhood. But still, I’ll always try to be the best parent I can be.

I was at the gas station the other day. It was a mild, easygoing Sunday afternoon. A lady was leaving, pushing a stroller. A boy of maybe six followed. By the way she spoke to the kids I’ll assume that she was the boy’s mother. On the way out of the store, the boy bent down to study something in the parking lot—a bug, leaf, caterpillar or something—and the mother lost her sh*!. She exploded, shouting for the boy to hurry along. The little guy tried, but he was having a time peeling away from whatever it was on the pavement. So she stomped over and yanked him along.

I’m not going to pretend that I thought the world was perfect or anything. But come on, can’t why not give him a minute? They were walking, there was no fire that I could see, why not let the little boy take a few minutes and look at something that catches his eye?

Again, I have plenty of flaws. Just the other evening, on my watch of course, my son took a spill into the fire pit (there was no fire) and scraped his leg. I’ve knocked him down hovering too close at the park. And I’ve been in a rush while dropping him off at daycare on mornings where I was running late. But still, I always give him a minute to explore—to take a second and appreciate a bug. A stick. A rock. Especially now. Because in a few years I won't remember my long boring day at work or whatever mundane thing I was doing. But I’ll remember my kid. And I want him to remember his childhood as a wild learning ride, not a rushed parent.

*And now for the preachy conclusion to this post.

Maybe that’s why a lot of kids grow up without an appreciation for their surroundings. We always hear how they litter and don't respect nature or the world in which they live. Maybe because they don’t know anything about it. 

My wife teaches second grade, and I couldn't believe it when she told how many kids have never even squished Play-Doh around in their fingers. How can we not have time to let our kids play? What could be important to us than them? We stare at phones constantly. We check our apps and our statuses and immerse ourselves in meaningless blather. So the least we can do is let our children check out their surroundings every once and a while. It’s amazing what sticks with them. 

Okay sorry. Where were we?

After the gas station incident I let my son play with an ant until the ant finally scurried up a tree and escaped. And you know what? The next time he was outside he went right for the tree, bypassing his toy mower and big wheel and bubble machine. I sat down in the grass, barefoot and smiling. My son was looking for an ant.

It's Hard Being the Favorite...

My back is aching. I haven’t eaten a meal at the house without thirty pounds of wiggling on my lap all week. I’m requested for diaper changes and hand washing. In the evenings he comes to me with a book, then calls out for me in the darkest hours of the night.

Let me just say, it’s hard work being the favorite.

Poor me. As the father of a two year old, the parental tide has turned in our household. Mom, once the sustainer of life, always the nurturer and steady caregiver, has found herself dropped to second place in favor of a chump. Don’t ask me how it happened.

I remember when he was stuck to Mom’s chest, how people told me not to worry, that my turn was coming, how little boys tend to want Daddy around this time. And don’t get me wrong, I love it. It’s just a lot of work, is all.

Yes, I know, I deserve to be laughed at for saying it. I’ve had a pretty easy ride here. I was the one heading out to play basketball or sleeping soundly through the night while my wife lugged the little guy around in her belly. I’d flop and flip and stretch out while she was stuck on one side, her back a wreck and her ankles swollen. After that it was her breast feeding and soothing voice that kept the baby from crying.

She was a natural. I was terrified.

And here I come along, with my fart jokes and cheap slapstick comedy routines and the little guy has stars in his eyes.

That’s gotta hurt.

Because Mom's the one who knows just what to fix him for dinner, while we play hockey or basketball in the hallway. Sure, I carry my weight and all, but still, I’m kind of just a big clown.

And I'll even let you in on a littel secret: Mom is actually the fun one. For the first year of his life I was what one might call, overprotective. I developed a newfound affinity for bubble wrap. I didn’t want my kid to be outside for fear of a falling satellite (It could happen). I told anyone who came near to watch his head, (that soft spot just kind of freaked me out).

I may have even been what you would consider, a stick in the mud. And now that he’s running and gunning I swoop in like I'm Captain Cool? Man, what a cheater...

So she shouldn't worry. Just sit back and enjoy that silver medal. Because the tide will turn again, I'm sure he’ll come to his senses and realize that Mom’s pretty good stuff. How could he not? He’s seen what I do to a grilled cheese sandwich, or my confounding attempts to fold his little shirts. And that lid on his sippy cup, what is this, a puzzle? I’m good for chasing him down the hallway or making up silly songs at breakfast. But certain things I just can’t do.

Faking it

So this is my all new, grown up blog template. I hope you like it...it was either this or robots.  I've been doing some thinking, and it's time for some changes around here, some more, uh, adult content. 

It’s been a good run, all this faking like I'm a grown up stuff...but now, nearing forty years old, I've decided to join the ranks of adult society.

For over twenty years I’ve been able to slide through undetected, passed over as eccentric or “funny” when in actuality I was performing. I was playing the lead role of Me, The Adult.

And no one's been the least bit suspicious. Well maybe a few people, like the cashier at the grocer store when I slap down an industrial-sized bag of Fruity Pebbles on the belt and avoid eye contact. Or maybe a few of the neigbors when I head down the street to go shoot hoops until my wife calls me for dinner. And at the bank, but, then again, why put the suckers out if you're just going to shoot me a look for taking one...or three?

But my love of candy aside, I've had everyone fooled. I paid bills and even got the hang of that smile/grimace thing people do in passing at work. So what I have an affinity for toys and or poop jokes that never morphed into something refined or mature. At least sometimes I do manage to tame or at least fight off the impulse to fall on the floor kicking and screaming when told I have to do something that I really really don’t want to do.

I've gotten scary good at faking adult conversations, nodding and uh-hushing, all the while thinking about those little plastic pizza topper things they stick on pies as my favorite pizza places while unknowing adutl yammers on about  budgets, plans, insurance, or maybe even gulp, vegetables or politics.

And for years it’s worked, getting pegged as an eccentric when I’m really wondering how I’ve managed to fool all these people into thinking that I’m really an adult. I mean, I even drink coffee, albeit loaded with sugary creamer so that it resembals liquid caramel, but still, coffee+adult.And even on the occasion that I get caught, stuffing my face with chocolate at work, or hopping up and down after getting free ice cream. Most people laugh it off as a joke anyway. Oh yeah, I was joking.  

But now we reached the dreaded but portion of this post. (See, no butt jokes?) Now that I have a kid, one who's vocabulary seems to be multiplying faster than a Gremlin after midnight, I realize that I have to be a uh, father figure. and it might not be best for my son to see me behaving like well....an adult. It's time I acted my age.

I mean, I'm not going to start wearing a watch or smoking a pipe or anything. But maybe I can work on toning down some of those knee-jerk reactions. No temper tantrums, and  I’m adjusting to saying no. Because as much fun as it's been playing Tom Hanks Big, it’s more important, I suppose, to set a good example.

But back to this blog, I'm going to start posting more stories and other kinds of stuff, whatever I feel like really. So for all of you readers out there, and that goes for both of you guys. Sit back and enjoy...

Efforts

Anyone who’s ever read one of my post can tell you that I’m no expert on parenting. Not even close. I don’t claim to be better than other parents out there, nor—as my wife could attest—do I have superior judgment skills. But where I come up short I hope to make up for with my efforts.

I will always make an effort.

We’ve recently gotten a membership to a local children’s museum. And it’s there that I’ve had a chance to witness all sorts of parenting first hand. And yes I watch. I watch a lot.

Sometimes it’s funny what you see. And sometimes it’s a little sad.

People, we’re at a children’s museum, not a bar or a club or even at the mall. There is absolutely no reason to act cool and aloof, you’re kid doesn’t get it.

Guys, parks and playgrounds are a free excuse to climb, slide, jump, giggle, and have at it. Nobody cares. And besides me, I doubt anyone is looking. So go ahead and stop strutting. It must get old anyway, that I’m too cool for the world stroll. It’s exhausting just to watch.

Hey, at least he's trying...

Moms. I get it if you’re bored or frustrated. You’re probably tired of waiting on that slowpoke husband of yours. But how about pretending that you’re having an, at least okay time. Just for a bit, right?

It’s incredible how many parents bring their children to a place to have fun then look like they’re waiting to get drilled in the mouth at the dentist office. And sure maybe I caught some of these people in a bad moment. Maybe that important phone call/text just happened to be a family crisis. In that case I’m completely in the wrong. But to the rest of you, go get dirty.

Maybe I just have unrealistic expectations. My dad made some of his own really bad parenting decisions—many  But you know what, he was there, right by my side. (Well, sometimes far ahead of me and yelling back over his shoulder for me to get moving because the park ranger was chasing us for riding mini-bikes in the park). But when it came to effort, he gave it his all.

He always had time for me, whether we were in a flimsy raft in a flooded creek or lighting probably-aren’t-legal fireworks purchased from a guy in a van known only as “Roach” at the flea market. We were always together. And to me that’s more important than being perfect, in fact the mistakes are most of the fun.

And that’s what I want to give my kid. No, not fireworks, but the effort. I don’t know how many times I’ve turned my back for a second and he’s slipped. But I’m not going to lose a how-hard-are-you-trying? Contest, because I’m trying hard, and if I look like a goof in the process then so be it.

Different Kids

On Sunday we ventured out to a park for some fresh air and family time. The weather was mild and it was the perfect opportunity to get out and enjoy the sunshine. And we weren't the only ones. Pulling in, it was a little crowded for my taste and I suggested maybe trying another place. It’s not that I don’t like people, more that I don’t like lots of them all at once because I'm mental. 

But my wife gave me that look. The look that says get over it, you’re being a curmudgeon, live a little. It’s one heck of a look. So with that I parked the car and out we went, hand in hand in hand and enjoying the sunshine.

We headed for the slides first, I wanted my wife to see how Simon could go down all himself. But my steps froze at the sound of this god-awful scream. A guttural, primal yelp that had me looking around for a feral cat by the dumpsters. 

But that wasn’t it.

It was a girl, maybe six and she was perched over our heads on the slide like a gargoyle. Once she had our attention she was off, slipping down and then peeking back, letting go with another um, sound. Okay, I thought, she’s an odd one. I glanced around for a parent or adult or perhaps a mother bobcat missing a human.

I tried to ignore the girl, I really really tried to ignore her. But she kept up the routine, with the grunting and growling so hard that her face turned a deep shade of maroon. And if that wasn't enough, she fell right in behind us, barking and bellowing or whatever the whole way along. At one point my son, not yet two, looked up to her and said, “too loud.” 

I had to agree, and by then I was a wreck of nerves. This little demon girl wouldn't leave us alone. As it turned out, the growling thing was a some kind of game she was playing with her older brother, who we found lurking in the shadows.

So then there were two little beasts.

Let me take a moment to say that while I think it’s great that two kids can be imaginative and pretend to be dragons instead of sitting around watching television or ipads, I'd prefer that they be creative somewhere else. But that wasn't happening because kids just naturally gravitate to my wife. Being a teacher, she's great with them and knows the proper way to speak to them and diffuse situations. Me? I tend to take more of a Billy Madison approach. 

It's not so much that I'm immature, it's just that--whatever--I only wanted to spend some time outside with my kid without being roared at every few seconds. I don't think that's too much to ask. And besides, the last thing I needed was for my two year old to pick up on some very unnerving demon dragon growl that made me want to drop these two kids off at the nearest church. 

My wife told me to calm down—to be an adult. After a self-imposed timeout I realized that she was right, I was getting way too worked up about the whole thing. We couldn't control every environment our kid entered. So while these two dragon kids hovered over us, being sketchy and making these horrible sounds, I would force myself to grit and bear it. I reentered the playground calmly, determined to get along and play nice. 

Another roar from the dragons. Oh look at the time, we really gotta get going. A few more passes down the slide and we were out of there.

Did I handle the situation appropriately? Maybe not. Okay, probably not. But the situation was new territory for me. I can't help the urge to protect. And you know what? My son is only two, so yes, I can control his environment. For now at least.

On the way home from the park, my wife (who sees different kids all day long), saw things differently. And what she said made me think. (Don't you just hate that?). Where I saw a little girl being weird and nerve wracking, she saw a bright, imaginative kid craving adult attention. Where I was annoyed and only thought of my own discomfort, she engaged the little dragon girl, urging her on. In fact, by the time we left the park she was chatting up a storm and showing us the other side of the playground like a little tour guide. 

I sighed, wishing I’d done things differently. Those are the little moments where I need to be the adult. Those kids were acting out for attention and would it really ruin my day just to loosen up and go along for a while?  And it won't be long before my kid wants to be a dragon or a tiger, or maybe a mime. Probably not a mime. But that's not the point. the point is that it's not just about my own kid, but every kid. We're all in this together. And we have to share this playground, even with the dragons..

But still, if I hear one of them say"O'Doyal rules!" well then, all bets are off...

Guy Time

Just me and the dude yesterday. I picked him up after work as my wife had PTA meetings after school. 

Let’s see, with the rain we were stuck inside, but that's okay, we made do. There was some vacuuming, some playing in the car, some Curious George, and some climbing on the couch. And then there was hockey, sort of…

For those of you out there unfamiliar with naked hockey, it’s something to behold. Maybe not the Miracle on ice, considering it was on the hardwood floors of our hallway, but it was right up there.

This was a one man game, as my son, stripped and bare and just before bath time, grabbed his stick—er, hockey stick, and with a strike, he drilled the puck down the hallway. And naked or not, he’s got quite the slap shot.

He’s a kid with little to hide, he’s out there bearing it all for the world, or for me and the dogs, to see. It’s impressive, his hand eye coordination, his determination, his refusal to wear a diaper.

The only thing he had to fear was the dog’s nose finding his rear, and that was more of just a mere distraction. After a quick intermission (a bath), he was right out in the hallway looking for that puck again.

I called it a game when he stopped, dropped the stick and just started peeing on the floor without so much as an “Uh-Oh” That’s when it was time for a diaper. Luckily, Mom came home from her PTA meeting shortly after and order was restored.

After getting him all ready for bed, he snuggled his head on her chest, and right before my eyes Daddy's naked madman hockey player became Mommy's little boy. Then he slept through the night, or until 6 am, which these days is like an extended check out at our house...

Wild Nights

I really thought my days of waking up in strange places were long gone, but when I found myself blinking and disoriented in the still dark hours this morning, the bed hard and cool and wait, this is the floor--I realized that maybe I was just regressing...

I’ve been hearing a lot about this sleep regression thing, and it appears we’ve hit this little stage right square in the mouth. For the past couple of nights my son wakes up, rattles his cage--uh, crib, like a pint-sized gorilla and then calls out Mommy Mommy Mommy! with a sense of urgency usually reserved for boogymen and snack refills. And not that I'm counting, but I've noticed that there is only the occassional Daddy thrown in the mix. Like a 13:1 ratio.

Maybe because my wife brought him in to the bed the other night, where he settled in happily. And I am genuinely amazed at just how much of a queen size bed can a 30 inch kid can occupy. I was kicked in the ribs by little toddler feet until just about fifteen minutes before I have to get up for work. Of course by then he was sound asleep.

But everyone says not to go down this road, putting the kid in the bed. I really don’t see the harm in doing so occasionally but then again I also don’t see the harm in having Fruit Loops for dinner. So anyway, last night, we put him to bed—his bed, and everything was normal. He only got about two Mommy’s in before he was out cold, (or warm, he had a blanket). Then, without even a tiny morsel of shame, my wife and I climbed into bed just before nine.

I fell into a deep, wonderful sleep—until about11:06 pm, when Mommy Mommy Mommy cranked up like an overplayed Pharrell song that did not at all reflect how I felt at the moment.

We gave it a minute. By Mommy #58 I rolled over. By Mommy #88 I peeled off the covers. By Mommy #128, I cursed the stubbornness gene that this Mommy of his passed on to her child. Then, I grabbed a pillow and blanket and did what needed to be done. I camped out.

Lying on the floor, with only a knotty layer of sea grass between my ribs and the hardwood, I thought, well, this isn’t so bad. And it wasn’t. Until I woke at two am, my neck feeling like a cork screw. Then I slunk off for the memory foam.

Nope

He heard me, one measly creak of the planks and he sat up like my dog when he sees a squirrel. And then…. Mommy!

Mommy? Seriously kid? Not to be petty here but do you see who’s lying on the floor, camped out like it’s Black Friday or something?  

I fell back to my bed of sea grass, sticking a hand through the slats of my son's crib, comforting him until he fell into a deep, coma like sleep. In the other room I could hear the dog cutting logs and dreaming of squirrells from the plush confines of his dog bed. Everybody had a place to sleep, and I guess I’d found mine.

Small Wonders...

I have no idea how many times in my adult life that I’ve walked out the door, straight to the car, turned the key and sped up the road….to work or to the grocery store or anywhere else. We all do, and it’s no big deal, right?

Well with a kid just shy of 20 months old that journey to the car is a big deal. Everything in the world is a big deal.

Birds become amazing creatures that have wings and soar through the sky. Planes too, only bigger and make humming noises as they push through the clouds. A cat crossing the street is and event. Flowers, leaves…..Rocks! Everything is so cool!

It’s humbling to see the world through my son’s eyes. Just the other day I watched him watch the crows pecking and cawing in the front yard. He was completely captivated by something that normally I would just walk past without even registering. But for him, such wonder! I held him up to the window, his eyes wide and enrapt with the crows. When they finally moved on he started waving, whispering “Bye Bye” as they flew to the next yard. Made my day.

A simple trip out to the yard is like a jaunt through a theme park. There’s so much to discover. The other day we played with twigs and sticks for nearly twenty minutes. Then it was the ants, quite the show they put on. Caterpillars, worms, even stinkbugs are all characters in this great wide open show called the world. Oh, and he really really like butterflies. Those get the brightest smiles.

He likes walks down the street. Those aren’t quite as fun for me, but that’s because I become a secret service agent--scanning the road ahead for cars, stray dogs, maybe even an errant tumbleweed. Who knows what may be lurking?

He points to cars, he loves the trucks. He squeals and mimics and just takes it all in. He never wants to go back inside. And he never ceases to surprise me with all the new words he knows. But he's not the only one learning, he's teaching me to relearn all of the things that as a "grown up" I take for granted. Like walking in a puddle at the end of a street, or blowing the seeds off of a dandelion. The curl of grass under my bare feet, mud on my toes. Hearing the birds sing their songs.

So maybe that’s why the posts here are less frequent, because we’re just having too much fun...

Captain Chaos...

According to the school calendar, summer is just about over. And so tomorrow, my wife heads back to the classroom to prepare for another wave of children arriving on Monday. I’ll be taking Thursday and Friday off from work to substitute parent at the house.

"Teaching Moment"

I need to mentally prepare for this time with him. While it seems effortless--watching my wife parent, she's already been warned that there is a chance that she may come home and find me in tucked into a tight ball, rocking in the corner of the room, finger-paint and yogurt in my hair as the dogs and the kid take full reign over the house.

I’m kidding, sorta. But it is true that my wife is the better parent. Yes, I know how that sounds, but it's the truth. Maybe it’s her teaching background, but she’s better with all the structure and calm. She plans out little activities, each piece of the day carved into neat blocks, always ready to jump in with a "teaching moment". With me, it's anarchy.

I try to watch her, to learn some of the tricks. Like when he gets sidetracked, trying to climb into the fridge or the dog food under the cabinet (don’t judge), she’ll just announce happily that we’re, “all done now!”, and he’ll actually do what she wants him to do. It’s like she speaks in a way that he understands. I speak….clown.

He’s pretty much talking now. With his bench mark at 15-20 words, he’s easily at thirty, maybe more if you count those gurgling sounds he makes when her runs. He’s a lot of fun, and he’s still trying to find his voice— like this morning when I almost had him saying ET phone home. We’ll get there.

But he’s got quite the temper on him, and sometimes I panic. Of course, my wife knows how to coax him out of a fit. Just the other night, I had to get him out of the car, and he let the world know that he wasn’t happy about it. He kicked and screamed, thrashing and flailing as his face went cartoon-devil-red and his tear ducts were all systems go. I looked at my wife. While I’m not completely useless, this was one doozy of a tantrum.

Then my wife calmly left the room, only to return with Patrick the monkey. She handed our son the monkey and I watched as he wrapped a chubby arm around Patrick and then his thumb found his mouth. I sat on the floor, watching as she rocked him back to a normal human being.

I can make him laugh. But she can calm his world.

But my poor wife, last night after putting him to sleep, she walked in the room and fell on the bed. “I’m going to miss him,” she said with moist eyes, and I thought about how she’s spent every single day with him over the summer. How he clings to her sometimes and they go on grocery shopping trips and she lets him carry around a balloon and he sees the dog food and starts barking. Her little pieces of the day with him are getting smaller.

But back to me.  With the end of summer comes another year of school. And beginning next week, I’ll have to get up nearly an hour earlier only to strap him in the car and haul him off to day care. It’s weird to think how I was just carrying him around everywhere in his car seat and now he has to walk or run wherever he goes. Man, I guess we have our moments, too.

After all, it’s not a competition, and even if it was, he’s clearly the winner. Besides, like I tell my wife, I'm doing the best with what I have. And I’ve got a whole bunch of love for that kid.

But still, wish me luck...

A Vacation Day...

With my wife and kid back home, I took a vacation day from work to catch up with my two favorite people. It was weird being off on a Wednesday, and the day itself started out like a Saturday, morphed into a Sunday, and then bounced back to hump day by evening. Not a bad deal.

The day was perfect from the moment I woke up. The sun was already out and the birds were singing an enchanting little...okay it wasn't much different. But as I lay in bed, listening to my son talking in his room, at least until I noticed my wife watching me stare at the ceiling grinning like a goofball. Everybody was happy to be home.

After breakfast, and some much needed vacuum time, we set out for some guy time at the park. I left my phone at home. We were flying under the radar. No pictures or social media. Just two guys roaming the world (or a three mile radius of our house, but you get the idea).

 

We started at the nature trails. I pushed Simon along in the stroller, but I could tell he wanted out, so instead we packed it up and tried the nearby school. That way I could let him roam around and play on the swing set and in those portable toilets he loves so much. 

And what a great idea that was--the school, I was kidding about the toilets--because as fate would have it, we pulled up to find a hot air balloon hovering right there in the football field.

Yeah, what timing. A big, fat, colorful balloon was just sitting there, waiting for us as we got out of the car. Kids were laughing and cheering along on the track like they were at a parade. It was a parenting jackpot.

 

I reached for my phone, but then remembered we were off the grid, which was good because instead I just watched the reflection of the balloon in the gleam of his wide open eyes. We never made it near the field because he was content to just stand there and stare. The balloon was anchored down with ropes and only going up a few feet for rides in the basket. But to him it may as well been a rocket launch.

 

After a while, we did end up going to the park where we slid the slides and ran around and he pointed out every morsel of trash. Later that afternoon, we went for a neighborhood walk and then took a family trip to the grocery store. 

 

Was it Disney Land? Nah. Sea World? Nope. The carnival? Only if you count the one inside my head. But it was exactly what this dad needed.

 

The day was perfect. I mean sure, it wasn’t without some fits and tantrums and a few tears. But we got through it. And while I don’t have the greatest job in the world, I am fortunate to have those days to take off, because time can be the greatest gift of all. 

 

Okay, enough clichés. But I'm thinking that taking vacation days to be with my son sounds like a really good idea. Because looking back, I’ll remember his face watching that balloon. And that I was there, and I was trying. And that a four day work week isn't too shabby...

  

 

The Backup Plan...

So we're still on this monkey thing.  And my son is really, really attached to his stuffed monkey. To the point of separation anxiety. The other night he tried to bring him along for his bath and a full on meltdown ensued. Crying in the tub is no fun, I mean, you can't even wipe your face. But a soggy monkey is no fun either.

My son marches around the house, barking and talking to this thing like a pet. And not far behind them is our husky, stalking, waiting for my son to drop the monkey so he can savor the sweet fuzzy delicacy he loves so much.

But we're one step ahead. Because, really, we're geniuses, and where other parents fail, my wife and I have taken preemptive steps to ensure that my son will never miss a beat.

We bought a backup monkey.

Yes, I know, so simple.  Yet, so cunning.  So as Mason,  crouches and tracks his prey, licking his chops and patiently biding his time, we've prepared.

What's that old story? About the grasshopper and the tortoise? Or maybe it was a beetle, I don't know, but that's us, we're beetles. And in the meantime I’ve been good about remembering to keep Real Patrick off the floor out of reach of danger, but just in case, we can go to the bullpen.

It was my wife’s quick thinking really. After all, she came home with him. Women are good about that stuff. But, like all great plans, there are a few kinks to work out. Like for example, #2’s hiding spot. I wasn’t thinking the other day when I slid open Simon’s closet door and he got a good peek at the clone lying in wait. We scurried out of there, and I hoped it didn't mess with his head too bad stuffed Real Patrick into his arms. Hopefully he can just chalk it up to a good milk drunk.

And there may be uh, a few other bumps in the road. Real Patrick smells like kid drool and old bananas, a hint of oatmeal, some yogurt. Maybe a spot of, well you know, sometimes he’s there for a diaper change, but all of that can be arranged.

So there you have it, two very bright parents looking ahead. No hitches in this plan. So if one little monkey falls off the bed....well, you get the idea.

The Favorite

Since the day our son was born, Mom has been the favorite parent. The Chief. The Rock. The Head Honcho. The one he looks to when he's hurt or happy or tired. I'm the one he looks to for filler. Like that sitcom you watch because it starts without warning or commercial right after your favorite show.

Yep, that's me.

But it’s cool. I’m okay with it. After all, she breast fed him for a year, so there was a special bond between mother and son and I was content to bide my time and plot wait.

Besides, there’s nothing wrong with second place. Hey, I’m on the podium and the grandparents are fighting it out for third. I'm kidding of course, except for the part about second place. I’m firmly in second. Anyway, I knew my place and was happy and willing to take whatever crumbs of affection fell my way.

But, (rub hands together and smile creepily), the scales have tilted, and things are balancing out a little sooner than expected. Like my wife said recently, I knew this day would come, I just thought it would be later.

Yes, well move aside my precious little silver medalist, our little one has taken to dear old dad more and more. Not a minute too soon if you ask me. Some might call it a draw, but I know better,especially after the newest development this week.

Our son has started doling out kisses, and many (ahem, most) are coming my way.

Now obviously we’re both happy with this new turn of events. But the other day I saw what could be described as a hint of jealousy.  It happened as I was getting smothered with kisses. I mean, my cheek was soaked with slobber and I was kind of worried about it getting chapped when. And then I saw it, my wife cutting her eyes at this father and son hallmark moment. She quickly recovered,  clearing her throat and smiling wildly. But I saw it, and the momentum had swung my way...

“Mommy wants kisses, can Mommy have kiss Simon?”

To be honest I was a little embarrassed for her. It was like watching a champion boxer well beyond his prime, taking a drubbing. It's hard to watch, and hear. Her voice was pleading and desperate,  on the verge of breaking,, and when Simon reached for me, the dethroning was complete.

She fought it, resorting to cheap gimmicks in a last ditch effort to get that kiss.  When it became clear that there had been a shift—when even the dogs had left the room because they couldn’t bear anymore, he was returned to me, and wasted no time planting a messy smooch on my cheek.

Her eyes widened. She’d gone from gourmet entrée to back freezer artifact in the time it took to say Hungry Man.  I swelled with pride, closing my eyes and grimacing like adults do in effort to tell her it was okay, not all of us can be perfect parents. 

After that Mom began campaigning hard to get back to the top. She joined us for bath time and playtime, unable to let him out of her sight and risk being bumped off the podium. She nearly broke her neck to skid down the hall after hearing him giggle.  And between you and me, her desperation wasn't very becoming. 

In all honesty I know my brief stint as go to parent is as permanent as a clean diaper. I’ll have my time, then it will be back to Mom. He’ll realize that Daddy is winging it, that he didn’t pack a treat in his pocket during a walk, or that he sometimes skimps on the butt paste. That he doesn't know when to shut his mouth or stop typing.

We each have our strengths, and pretty soon he'll notice that mine are silly hijinks and pranks. I can dance like a monkey, but Mom is much better for snuggling.  She’s good at that stuff, and besides, who am I kidding, it's too much pressure being the favorite. For us, this is a team sport.

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.

The Overprotective Dad...

 

 

Since my whole life the fall, I've been having issues. I've become a hoverer, casting a shadow of safety over my son as I try to cushion or catch any fall that may or may not be in his path. But I'm only making things worse. My constant looming restricts his movement and things usually end with him throwing a fit when I scoop him up and haul him inside to the wonderful confines of his padded room. 

Of course I'm kidding, there's no padded room. Although Daddy may be checking in to one soon.

I can’t help it. Trust me, I’d love to not be this way. And I completely understand that I cannot protect my son from every fall and scrape. It' s part of the process, the bumps and bruises along the way.  Got it.

Yet I hover.

And my issues aren’t just outdoors. For instance, the other day I saw him wobbling over towards the kitchen table, which is rectangular, which means it has corners.  Enough with the geometry lessons, the point is that I hate corners.

I freaked out, bounding towards him with the delicacy of a blitzing linebacker.  I went to protect his head—the cringe inducing soft spot in particular—when I accidently bumped him with my fingers.  He plopped down, not crying, but looking at me as if to say, What the hell man?

Sorry dude.

I'm trying to let go, remembering I was chewing on rust chips at his age. But still, I keep waiting for the next fall…handing him over to my wife and hunching over like an umpire. Watch the step.  Okay, okay, watch the stick, don’t let him have that, okay there, alright watch him. You’re not watching!

Luckily I was able to duck the chair that came my way.

Over the weekend, we visited my niece to meet her brand new baby.  And no sooner than we entered, I honed in on the glass coffee table and entertainment system, both eyebrow level with my son. I held him close while pretending to have a conversation, nodding through my blurred vision, dry mouth, and tingling limbs, the warning sirens in my head piercing my thoughts. 

In case I haven't been clear, my wife has had enough of this little routine. It was funny at first, me being the overprotective Dad, but like all mental health caregivers will tell you, she needs a break.

So this week, with great reluctance I’ve released him from my grip, letting him walk around freely, belly out and legs wide, barefoot over broken glass, crawling through the splintered wood with rusted nails. I am forcing myself to back off some/a little/barely and let the kid practice walking.  Yesterday he got going a little too fast for my liking and I actually uttered the words. “No running.” 

Do you remember the day when you first realized that you were a grown up? It was kind of weird...

So as much as it kills me, I'm not hovering. I’m watching. I’m close. I’m ready to jump if needed. Just say the word and I'll dive right in.  But for now I'm hanging back, just a bit. Just minding my own--FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WATCH OUT FOR THAT LEAF!!! 

Mr. Cool, that's me.

I want him to be self sufficient. So far so good, when he does fall he gets up and swats away my attempts to help.  But at the same time I don’t want to have the neglected kid. Hmm,  I think we’re safe there.  And lastly, I don’t want to have the kid with the weird dad. 

But I think we’re too late for that….