Tag Archives: Sons

Money for nothing (and some chips for free)

A whole year ago, at the tender age of three, Buster began pulling at my heart strings to make me feel guilty about leaving for work in the mornings. I eventually bought him off by explaining that I had to work to earn money so I could buy things, like cookies and Doritos.

The horrible thought of not being able to afford snacks toned down his guilt trip, allowing me to get away without feeling I was abandoning my children to the wolves. For months, I believed a boy’s lust for cookies had solved the abandonment issue.

I was wrong.

It’s not that Buster has committed himself to anything drastic, like healthy eating; he’s just never fully abandoned the notion that he can have both Daddy on weekday mornings and cookies.

This morning he introduced his new tactic. “Don’t go to work,” he pleaded. “I’ll give you money if you stay home.”

So it’s come to this – children trying to buy their parents’ love. Doesn’t he know that never works?

First of all, it’s the government’s job to pay people not to work, and he could get into a lot of trouble if the government found out he was honing in on its racket. Second, I know the sum of ready cash to which he has access. It amounts to about $2. I don’t know how many Oreos he thinks that will buy, but it’s hardly an economic incentive to keep me at home when I can make double that amount by going to work.

In Buster's mind, this is how much money he can offer me. Here, he pictures me going off to trade it for a cartload of treats.

In Buster’s mind, this is how much money he can offer me. Here, he pictures me going off to trade it for a cartload of treats. Unlike going to work, this is a valid reason for me to leave the house.

Consequently, I had to refuse his offer, but he didn’t take defeat lying down. In fact, he would only take it by being picked up. As I bent over to hug him goodbye, he made the apparently innocent request, “Pick me up and hug me.” This request is anything but innocent.

Buster is a world champion hugger, and once he gets his hug all up over you, it’s a chore to break free of it. He’s all arms and legs, which encircle his target like creeping vines. He is one prehensile tail away from having the grip of a monkey in a windstorm.

But the real curse of his hug is the sweet, warm feeling of being loved it gives the hugged. It must be a similar dreamlike feeling that insects get after being injected with venom and wrapped up snug in a spider web. You want to resign yourself to captivity.

Every time I pull away from Buster’s hug, he leaves with another little piece of my heart. But a man greedy for a fistful of quarters does what he has to do. Somehow, I did it soon enough to stay on schedule for work.

That’s when I encountered the slowest, longest, freight train on Earth, crossing the road between me and my workplace.

I was annoyed that the train made me late, but I was even more annoyed that I could have used that time to get more Best Hug in the World.

You boys will make fine young cavemen someday

I think there are studies suggesting little girls are generally more articulate than little boys. I can’t verify the existence of these studies because thoroughly researched facts have no place in this blog. If indeed such studies exist, I’m inclined to believe them. I don’t have any experience raising girls, but there are recurring instances when the average squirrel is more articulate than my boys. I’m guessing girls are, on balance, more articulate than squirrels. Ergo . . .

I think the preceding paragraph is a syllogism or something. It’s seems like pretty air-tight logic.

My boys may get some of their articulation resistance from their father. When I am particularly tired, I tend to grunt answers to questions. At a quarter to midnight, when I am struggling against all odds to procure some beauty sleep, and my wife rolls toward me to ask, “Do you want to have some pillow talk?” my response sounds something like, “Hrrrnn.” In my defense, “pillow talk” is not a euphemism for anything more exciting than a meandering conversation in the dark. “Hrrrnn” is a generally accepted abbreviation for, “No thank you, Dearest Love. As much as I treasure the sound of your voice, my endless days of being abused by employers and children demand sleep.”

A man's home is his cave.

A man’s home is his cave.

My boys are grunters from top to bottom. Big Brother’s language exemplifies the period when cave people first domesticated wolves. It consists of a combination of grunts and whines, all used to voice displeasure at parental authority:

PARENT: “Get ready for bed.”

BOY: “Hnnn, urrrl!”

Or

PARENT: “It’s time to get up for school.”

BOY: “Urmpf, ouwnnn!”

I understand his need to develop a good grunt; it may shield him from unsolicited conversation after he gets married. On the other hand, he’ll likely remain a bachelor if he’s forever uncorking a bottle of whine.

Buster grunts in accusation. Ask him why he’s crying and he will grunt through his tears, pointing  a skinny finger at one of his brothers. This is not helpful; we already assumed there’s a brother at fault. To get useful information, we have to ask him where it hurts. If he points out a spot on his body, it indicates an actionable offense like punching or kicking. If he merely grunts again, we know somebody claimed a toy before he did, and that’s the kind of conflict they can grunt out on their own.

Caveboy need sticky. Urrr!

Caveboy need sticky. Urrr!

Big Man knows some words, but the ol’ grunt-n-point is this cavetoddler’s preferred language. There are many things he needs in his daily life, objects ranging from the dangerous to the sticky, and he will gladly grunt his desires as he points the way to necessary things. Some things are up high, where toddlers can’t reach. The more out-of-reach an object, the more urgently he needs it, and the higher-pitched his grunts become.

I think my boys and I do cavemen proud. Cavewomen might roll their eyes at us, but that just proves how little some people have evolved.

It will be quiet someday; meanwhile, let’s have some noise

Someday they’ll stop calling me Daddy. My name will change to Dad. I won’t mourn that day. There will be, I hope, benefits to them becoming self-sufficient. Maybe I’ll even catch up on my reading.

In the next few weeks, Buster and Big Man will turn four and two, respectively. There are no more babies in the house. I’m happy I haven’t had to heat a bottle in a year, and I look forward to the day the last one says goodbye to diapers. Maybe we’ll take a vacation with the diaper money.

I appreciate all the things Big Brother can do for himself, from making a snack to going to the bathroom without me having to know about it, although sometimes he still likes to announce his intentions. I’m sure I’ll enjoy feeling less like a servant in my own home when the little boys can do things for themselves. I may even gain weight from all the sitting down for more than two minutes in a row I plan on doing.

I imagine being able to go places without someone falling asleep in the car, or what really blows my mind: going places by myself. The really fine thing will be spending time with each individually, free of the competition that comes so naturally between them and turns them into a raucous mob. I’m looking forward to talking instead of shouting over the din.

The raucous mob does settle down from time to time, but always in Daddy's chair.

The raucous mob does settle down from time to time, but always in Daddy’s chair.

I look forward to many good things that will come with my boys getting older, yet I am old enough to know I can wait for those things. They will come whether I appreciate the days preceding them or not. It’s best to appreciate all the days; they never come around again.

There are days when keeping on top of all these boys’ needs runs both parents ragged. In spite of this, my wife would go on having babies forever if that were possible. I’m too feeble for that, but I will concede that nobody hugs quite as good as toddler. I will further admit that nobody’s mind matches the waterfall of discovery of a preschooler’s. And while I’m at it, nobody’s imagination is more entertaining than a grade schooler’s.

As much as I look forward to more peace, I’m in no hurry to say goodbye to toddler giggles or preschool jokes or grade school stories. I can’t hold onto them forever, and I have no desire to. I only want to enjoy them to their fullest while they are all around me. I want to experience the things yet to come, but I can be patient for those seasons to have their place.

Time doesn’t need my help. It moves too quickly already. Sometimes it’s easy to anticipate the future at the expense of the present. I hope to catch myself when I fall toward this trap; though I will not mourn the day I become just Dad, I will, a little bit, mourn the loss of the day when I was Daddy.

Dad: the unauthorized biography

Second graders today are doing work in school that was unimaginable when I was seven. It’s not only the complexity of some of the things they are asked to learn that is responsible for this, but also the fact that the tools they have to work with were simply beyond our imaginations 40 years ago.

At our most recent parent/teacher conference, we were asked to bring our second grader along with us. This change in protocol had an ominous color to it; we imagined them wanting us all together when they explained why we would be asked to leave the school district. Once we discovered we were not the only parents instructed to bring their child, we felt better about it.

Midway through the conference, our son retrieved a notebook computer from the corner of the classroom, logged onto his account and showed us a PowerPoint presentation he had been working on.  The kids were assigned a biographical presentation. My son chose as his subject a “famous” author. A few of the slides follow.

slide2

Biography’s don’t usually bring me to tears, but I found this one especially touching.

He found all the images on the Internet and incorporated them into his project. He is not bothered by distortion as far as I can tell. Some of the images got a little pixellated in the transition, but the most prominent distortion is the fame of his subject. Yet, we all have to make our own artistic decisions.

Speaking of distortion, some of his facts are a little off. His recollection of why he put a Christmas ornament into my mouth is incorrect: we never run out of cookies.

slide4

Also, though apparently born there, I’m not sure where Mohalkvill is. I’m pretty sure he means the Mohawk Valley, but the New York part is right, so why quibble over details.

On the other hand, the part about having been born in 19 something is absolutely correct. That’s exactly when I was born. The age is correct, and I was relieved to learn that I am still alive, a fact that is sometimes in doubt but I hope he got right.

slide3

He was not finished with the project at this time, so I’m not sure if he meant to remove the book covers from my face or do the more appropriate thing and completely paste over my head. For now, we’ll have to be content that a good portion of the unsightliness lies hidden.

Being the subject of a biography is a sobering responsibility. I have to work hard to prove I was a worthy subject. This will be difficult, as my natural inclination will be to let my new fame go to my head and to begin putting on airs.