Tag Archives: boys

The precious gems of childhood

When we moved into our house, we discovered remnants of a white quartz bed some previous owner had made. White quartz can look good around a swimming pool, but the closest thing we have to a pool is a section of lawn that floods for a month every spring. White quartz does nothing for swamps.

I didn’t want to reuse the white quartz so I hid it behind an out-of-control woody shrub where no one would see it. Years passed; children were born; white quartz was forgotten and buried.

This Memorial Day Weekend, Big Brother and Buster found themselves playing in the secret white quartz burial ground. Big Brother discovered a piece of it. He brought it to me to be assayed forthwith. “Is this a crystal?”

I looked it over. “Yes, I suppose it is.” I’m not a geologist by any means, but quartz being a crystal sounds reasonable to me.

His eyes lit up. Apparently, crystals are synonymous with diamonds in second grade. He and Buster immediately set to work uncovering their fortune. They dug up crystal after crystal, eventually needing a tin to hold them all.  Big Brother kept count. After they had unearthed 200 precious gems, he asked me, “How much money do you think we have?”

I don’t have a good feel for fluctuations in the prices of crushed stone, so it was only a guess. “Oh, probably about four cents.”

“What? I thought we’d have at least $1,000 by now.” His enthusiasm was not dampened, meaning he was more interested in discovery than money, or more likely, I had proven my incompetence at valuing gemstones.

At length, their dig led them closer to the stem of the bush, making the branches more of a nuisance. They retrieved a garden lopper from the garage. Big Brother began clipping off branches while Buster, tempted by the lure of greater treasure, was persuaded to the less glorious task of hauling them away. I let them attack the bush at will since it runs amok so readily as to need trimming every two minutes.

This will look nice in the garage.

This will look nice in the garage.

Before long, the easy bits were cleared and thicker branches lay in their way. Big Brother began to strain as he struggled to squeeze closed the arms of the lopper. He gritted his teeth, grunting and groaning as the blade grew unwilling to cut any deeper. Sweat ran down his temples. From deep in his belly rose up prehistoric sounds of man’s epic battle against the forces of nature.

Mans never-ending struggle with nature.

Man’s never-ending struggle with nature.

At last, he relaxed his grip and took a deep breath. “This is even harder than taking a big poop,” he announced.

“Then stop making all those pooping noises,” Buster commanded.

Big Brother gave the clippers one more quick try, but we all knew the battle was lost. The clipping was over.

He learned a valuable lesson of manhood that day: when it’s the price of a sparkly rock, something harder than taking a big poop is probably not worth doing.

Dads need to go outside and play in the fresh air too, apparently

Now that warmer weather is dipping its toes into our part of the world, the children want to be outside, which is generally a good thing but sometimes inconvenient.

At seven, Big Brother is competent to be outside by himself. Out of context, this would be a really good thing. I could tell him to go outside and play whenever I need a minute to think, or not be pestered by 1,000 questions about tornadoes, or rekindle the romance with my wife. Okay, I may need as many as two minutes.

In context, Big Brother has little brothers. The moment Big Brother even smells fresh air, Buster is at his heels, and Big Man is forming the conga line behind Buster. It’s like outside is giving away free candy and nobody wants the other kid to get it all.

Our street isn’t a terribly busy one, and Buster and Big Man are good about staying out of it, but it’s still a street and Buster and Big Man are still four and two, respectively. Four and two happen to be some of the least trustworthy ages.

When Big Brother goes outside, it begins a chain reaction, ending with me dropping whatever I’m doing and following everybody else. Outside is good, but it is certainly not giving away candy, and sometimes I have things to do in the house, like studying for my next tornado pop quiz.

I hate keeping the kids indoors, but it can’t always be helped, and we’ll have our own organic tornado if I let one go without the others. Neighborhood kids are good at asking Big Brother (and his necessary coattails) to come out and play at inconvenient times. It’s difficult explaining the dynamics of why he can’t go out by himself, so it’s nice when there’s a handy excuse for keeping him inside. Something like “He’s doing his homework right now.” or “Dinner is in three hours, so he has to get ready for that.”

Without sound, you can’t even tell this is the beginning of a fight.
Big boy bike
On the road again.
Big brother on his favorite vehicle. Dream on!

It wouldn’t be so bad if they would stick together once they got out there, but they have different interests, aside from their monolithic desire to be outside. They all have vehicles to ride and two will want to go different directions down the sidewalk while the third heads out cross-country. The good news is they will all stay in one place when they start fighting over who gets to ride what. Then, there will be tugging and yanking, and maybe some crying, which is a good way to keep track of where they are.

Outside is especially tricky at this time of year when the days are long but school is still in session. It’s mean enough to make a kid go inside, but to then make him go to bed is downright cruelty. I know this because I’ve been told so every night this month. It’s totally “not fair!” I’ll consider that while I wait to get old enough to come and go as I please.

He ain’t hungry, he’s my brother

My boys must sense my parental skills are waning. Last week, Buster stepped in to help me overcome an impasse with Big Man. Not to be outdone at helping Daddy get some parenting accomplished, Big Man jumped in this time and hefted me over a hurdle with Buster.

Saturday morning Mommy went to work. Big Brother, Buster, Big Man and I deserved a treat, so we drove to the place that once was a donut shop and now is a liquor store that sells donuts. Everybody got to pick out the donut he wanted. Some were vocal and decisive, while others gave mumbly, vague answers. Once I had satisfied myself, and the people in line behind us, that every boy wanted the same donut as his older brother, we were able to move aside and let the remainder of our community have a crack at a nutritious breakfast.

A five-minute car ride, including a 10-minute argument over who got to hold the box, brought us home. I served the donuts, leaving everyone much pleased with his treat, except the boy who wasn’t. There’s always one who can’t handle happy times.

Today’s sourpuss was Buster. “I don’t want this kind of donut,” he pouted. It was the only kind we got, because it’s everybody’s favorite. If I’d gotten him a different kind, he’d have fought his brothers for this one. As recently as six minutes ago, he wanted this kind, but times had changed since then.

“You asked for this one,” I reminded him.

“I don’t want this kind.”

My sweet, fresh donut was beckoning me, but my mouth was employed arguing with a four-year-old. I should have picked up some liquor to help me get past this donut brunch.

He would stare at it, but he wasn’t going to eat it. No matter it was his favorite, he was in an argument now, and he meant to stand his ground.

I too was in an argument, but I meant to eat a donut. This I did, even as Buster scowled at me for ignoring the hardship I’d caused him. It was trending toward an angry morning.

There would have been trouble, if not for Big Man’s caring soul. He knew they were good donuts, because he’d just polished off one himself. He picked up Buster’s donut and gently pressed it to Buster’s lips. Buster clenched his mouth shut. Holding the donut to Buster’s mouth, Big Man used his free thumb to pry down Buster’s bottom lip. Buster tried to hold his lips together, but he could not resist the combined appeal of the donut and his little brother’s sincere desire to see him fed.

Buster relented. He took a little bite. Of course, he liked it; it’s his favorite. He took a bigger bite. Big Man patiently held it for him until he was ready to concede stubbornness and just be happy eating a good donut.

By the time I grabbed the camera the battle was mostly won. Strawberry frosting and brotherly love are powerful foes.

By the time I grabbed the camera the battle was mostly won. Strawberry frosting and brotherly love can be powerfully convincing.

Sometimes only a little brother can save the day.

May they always take care of each other like this.

Grown man seeks help of preschooler to outwit toddler

Big Man is a model two-year-old when it comes to going to sleep at night. Once I get him to his room and lay him down in his bed he goes right out and sleeps until morning.

The disagreeable part is getting him to his room when it means leaving behind his family, who could potentially still have fun without him, in the living room.

It’s my job to put him to bed, and the moment he realizes I mean to do it, he runs straight at Mommy. As much as she wants him to get his rest, Mommy relishes this moment. Big Man is often too busy hiding TV remotes and telephones to be much of a snuggler. But as soon as Daddy says it’s time for bed, he dives for Mommy’s lap like she’s the last chopper out of Saigon.

The words, “Time for bed,” signal Big Man that he should do something endearing, making desirable his continued presence in the land of the conscious. Everyone understands the game.

The other day, Big Man and Buster were playing LEGOs. We have a big, basket/bag hybrid container full of sundry LEGO pieces from the many sets we’ve built and smashed as a family. In years to come, when the boys inquire about their college funds, I will point to that basket; it’s all tied up in precious LEGOs.

The dreaded LEGO basket/bag. It doesn't look like a lot, but underneath the three big pieces are 999,999,997 tiny pieces.

The dreaded LEGO basket/bag. It doesn’t look like a lot, but underneath the three big pieces are 999,999,997 tiny pieces.

There are like a billion LEGO pieces in that basket. When a substantial portion of them gets dumped out it becomes a daunting clean-up project. Having the entire basket dumped out makes me want to put a For Sale sign on the house and let the next people deal with it.

On this particular day, Big Man and Buster had a fraction of the contents on the floor at clean-up time. Buster, being the biggest brother at hand, was in charge. He began to do his duty. Big Man, however, donned the “I’m too young to be expected to pick up after myself” attitude.

It turns out Big Man does know how to pick up, especially when it's time for bed.

It turns out Big Man does know how to pick up, especially when it’s time for bed.

For the record, Big Man is not too young. He is often astute at picking up. Buster knows this about his little brother, and was rightfully irked by the idea of picking up by himself.

Buster appealed to me to intercede, but it can be challenging to compel a two-year-old to pick up LEGOs when he has no mind for it. I tried many forms of soft coercion, all to no effect.

He even knows where things belong, but only when it's time for bed.

He even knows where things belong, but only when it’s time for bed.

That’s when my genius four-year-old dealt me an ace. Buster whispered to me: “Tell Baby he has to go to bed if he doesn’t help.” (Big Man is still Baby to him.)

I turned to Big Man. “You don’t want to pick up LEGOs?”

He shook his head.

“Well then, I guess it’s time for bed.”

Big Man dropped whatever useful device he was trying to pry the batteries out of and darted to the LEGOs. In five minutes the floor was clear.

Everyone understands the game, and some have figured out how to play it.