Castaway...

Ten days until the cast comes off. And boy are we counting down the minutes.

My apologies. It’s been a long month in our house. Ever since my son wrecked his bike and broke his leg (yes, broke, I still can’t believe it) only three days into Kindergarten we’ve been in some sort of weird holding pattern. Or healing pattern. 

So many times I started to write about it but couldn't. Maybe because of the guilt. I feel mostly responsible. Short story: he was in his pajamas, all ready for bed when the neighbors came walking down the street. It was dusk, and he bolted outside and wanted to ride his bike (re: showoff for the older kids). I knew he was exhausted, that he was rushing and it probably wasn't a good idea. And yet, I told him okay, go get your helmet. He got on his bike, rode out the driveway as he's done so many times. I was telling him to lookout for traffic when the handlebars wiggled, wiggled some more, and I could only watch from two car lengths away as the bike folded. It's not a night I want to remember...

I feel bad for the kid, I mean, he broke his leg. But now, as he's come along, gotten comfortable, scooting up and down the hallway, we’ve become more like his personal servants than parents. 

I'm pretty sure the other day he added a "chop chop" to a milk request. It appears we have some bad habits to break. Like watching so much TV and eating breakfast on the couch. For a kid who climbs trees, runs around the yard, and never sits still, it’s been an adjustment. But still, chop chop? Even a sucker like me has limits. 

So we’re ready. We are are oh so ready to get this thing off. And it just may do so all on its own. It's coming apart at the heel, the vibrant purple color has dulled and faded and I'm fairly certain that if we didn’t have a date to cut the cast off, it would disintegrate.

And speaking of disintegrate. The smell. The smell of feet, of old, wet, dirty, whatever is going on in the depths of that thing. Baths are tricky, we've been dipping his head in the sink to wash his hands, flipping him around to get, uh, other areas clean. But the boy could use a good soaking. 

As a parent, this was one of my worst nightmares. I was actually sort of a basket case for the first twenty-four hours, at least until the doctor put me at ease. Casting wasn't so easy. Our kid wasn't exactly ready to sit still, but who could blame him, we've been remarkably lucky healthwise up until this...

But it hasn’t been all that bad. Bad? Yes, of course, but it’s been a learning experience. Sure, the little guy gets frustrated. Angry. Cries at times, but you know what, other times he’s gotten creative, learned new ways to accomplish his tasks (even if it means manipulating Daddy), and kept on making us smile.

So here’s to ten days.

The Race...

The wind screams past my ears, blowing against my face, rifling through my hair. I look to my left and see a boy, legs churning, smile spreading, eyes alight with a mixture of fun and fear. The rain hits the trees in the distance, approaching full steam but not yet arrived. We race the rain. 

  

It was one of those moments I knew I’d remember even as it was happening. I missed vacation this year. I missed writing. I started a new career with new challenges that threw this summer into a tailspin. Mom and son went up to New York to see family without me. But this race, our race in the rain was better than any ocean or theme park. It was a race against time.

My kid is five and he’s really coming into his own. He longs for friends his own age, yet still clings to Mommy and Daddy when the room is dark. He can be feisty, stubborn, with a Kylo Ren-like ferocity and determination to get his way. But at other times he’s a lovable, sweet, boy full of compassion, ready to protect a bug or a butterfly.

He’s bright. He’s thoughtful. He’s pretty much everything in my life. Even when he’s upset with me. Even when he has to do chores. Even when he has to brush his teeth. Even when he has to sit at the dinner table. No matter what I always remember one thing. Time is short. He's growing up. The hugs will loosen and the chores and bedtimes and the tuck ins and stories will become something we remember instead of do. The race is on...

I'm Fine, Dad...

At five, my kid is all about Daddy. We bond over all things guy. We sword fight, we wrestle, we run and jump and we charge into the woods. It's a great way for me to pretend I'm a kid again--I mean uh, hangout with my son.
  
Only now I’ve been replaced by the two boys across the street. Maybe seven and nine, they have new moves, new ideas, and they out “kid” me in every way. (I mean, hey, I’m only but so immature). They sword fight, only better. They build extravagant Lego space shuttles that put my rudimentary vehicles to shame. They don’t have jobs, so they are free to memorize the names and lines of every Star Wars villain. Simply put, I cannot compete. 

Sure, it’s nice to watch him interact and play in the front yard. Last week I was returning from my walk with the dogs. It was around six or so, that great time in the spring where the sun is low and warm and the trees were budding and I heard the sounds of kids playing in the yard. My yard. It was a nice little moment. 

“Hey buddy,” I said, getting to the driveway. 

Nothing. 

He was busy, on the swing out front. The neighbor kids were pushing him (a little too high for my taste) and he was having a blast. I nodded, knowing how the swing sort of veers back into the tree after so many times and I was worried about his head hitting the tree so I edged my way over, you know, just so that I could swoop in if something were to happen. 

But my kid saw me coming, and I swear, I think he might have rolled his eyes. 
“Dad, I’m fine.”

And he was fine.  Completely, wonderfully, fine. SoI trudged up the driveway to the carport, where I found my wife standing there, smiling at me the way Adrian smiled at Rocky after a good pummeling. She wrapped me in a towel, rubbed my shoulders, and we commenced to what I think is considered an adult conversation. 

Okay, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but after two years of being Mr. Fun, it does feel a little like a demotion. Though it is kind of cool watching this boy—not baby, not toddler, but all boy—run and play and charge and create. And if I’m being honest, my back sort of needs a rest. 

Phased Out

We're always saying how time moves so much slower when you're a kid. When you get to be an adult everything speeds up and the years go swooshing by. Yeah, I suppose,but in some ways maybe not. Think about it, for a kid, every day is one action-packed with rapid growth and development. Change comes hurling itself at them by the hour. Where I'm rigid and set in my ways, my son is still malleable—at least until it comes to lunch options...

For instance, my son and I had this routine, every Saturday I’d pack up the car with recycling then drive across the lot to the Re-Store. There, we’d check out all the junk, the new arrivals, whatever caught out eye. It got to the point that all the guys there new us. And we found all sorts of stuff. I wrote about it here.

I found myself looking forward to those Saturday mornings. The two of us bonding over all things discarded. Pipes, paint, rusty old tools. It didn’t matter what we found, we were hanging.

But then one Saturday  it stopped. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t care to buy any junk with Dad. I couldn’t believe it. I think Mom was relieved.

I blame Star Wars. Once he saw the power of the force, those old trinkets didn't seem so earth-shattering. 

Last summer, same thing. All he wanted to do was play baseball in the front yard. I got him a bat and ball and glove and even these little bases and we pitched whiffle balls and stayed out until dark and I think I may have gotten a teeny bit too caught up with being a kid and maybe-just-maybe had too much fun with it all. But it was great. And then it stopped.

We started hanging in the basement. Guy time. I’d play old records and we fixed up a clubhouse under the steps. Those were some good times. I wrote about it here. But now? Nope. No basement, no clubhouse.

Again. I blame Star Wars.

But seriously. My kid is changing by the day. He's getting older and wiser and bigger and stronger. Me? Not so much. It takes me longer to switch gears. Maybe I just have trouble with change. I still like playing old jazz records in the basement but there will come a time (like now, you're probably thinking) that that might not be so cool. 

It’s like Curious George. One minute we’re watching George play with a squirrel, then, well, Star Wars.

But it’s okay. We all have to change. I mean, I can’t go to his first day at kindergarten with him in a stroller, right? He’s growing. And the important thing is that I’m enjoying watching him live and learn and grow. I have to enjoy these phases and moments for what they’re worth, because at least were together. And then comes along a day like yesterday, where we found an old used soccer ball and then stopped off for a kite. We had the park all to ourselves and the sky was blue and perfect and I'm out there, my hands on my head, watching this kid tearing across the field, pulling a kite along. And I'm just laughing like a maniac because it's just such a moment. It's like a gust of wind came along and swept me away. 

Later still he's in my arms. We're in the driveway. He's got a stick in his hand, pretending to be Yoda. I point up and we stare at the moon. He falls into me and we watch a jet silently make its way across the sky. It last only seconds, but I'm squeezing the crap out of those seconds. Because it’s scary to think how one day soon all these moments will be like one big scrap book in my head. And then he’ll be grown, and these days will be gone completely. 

Man, one day I'll miss Star Wars...