Tag Archives: Sons

The Terrible Twos wait for no one

Big Man was considering the “Terrible Twos” recently, thinking about how his second birthday is still five months off, when he had a toddler epiphany: why wait? There’s no law that says you have to wait until two to be terrible. Besides with all the good work he already has under his belt: making mincemeat out of Daddy’s CD collection, destroying all his brothers’ best LEGO creations, becoming a master artist in the medium of ripped books and papers, he’s already got a meatier resume in terrible than most authentic two-year-olds.

I must reluctantly agree. Big Man has outgrown the level of destruction, chaos, and all-around mess-making expected of a one-year-old. It’s difficult for parents to see their kids grow up so quickly, but to attempt to hold him back from the terrible twos would be an injustice to his nature.

There’s lots of fun to be had in the terrible twos, unless you happen to be one of the unfortunate people who is not two, and also not terrible. In that case, you might not see all the fun in it. You may not be able to picture the fun through all the mopping up and taping back together you find yourself doing. But everybody has their role to play; that’s the beauty of the system.

"You didn't need any of this stuff, did you?"

“You didn’t need any of this stuff, did you?”

I don’t want to say Big Man is a naughty boy; I want to use euphemisms like “active” and  my favorite, “busy.” Big Man is indeed a “busy” little boy. He is very busy being naughty. But it’s all in good fun. He doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body. It’s just that his idea of good fun means somebody has to clean it up or glue it back together, or just throw it away and realize that God didn’t mean for him to have nice things.

"Got my safety goggles on, now lets fix some stuff that aint broken."

“Got my safety goggles on, now let’s fix some stuff that ain’t broken yet.”

Big Man is very curious as to how things work, and most often you’ve got to take it apart to see how it works. I’m convinced he needs to know how every single thing in our house works, now that he knows the secret to figuring it out. Child safety latches mean nothing to him. Wait, I take that back. Safety latches mean there is a rewarding treasure of dangerous things to discover behind this cabinet door – possibly things that can be plugged in.

the mother lode

It’s easier to find the right pan when they are spread out over the kitchen floor. What a helpful boy!

In fairness, I must say that Big Man revels in being helpful. He will bring you your shoes, regardless of whether you intend going out. He is so eager to give you your shoes that he sometimes flings them at you from across the room. If a shoe happens to clip your head, that’s a helpful reminder that you should always keep an eye out for your shoes after you decide to go out – and sometimes before you decide. Also, it is not the most painful thing likely to hit your head today, so just count your blessing and put on your shoes.

And my blessing always include Big Man.

Flag football: a sport where getting in the way is a useful skill

The oldest son is playing soccer and flag football this year. This is his third year of soccer and first of organized football. Sports get pretty serious in 2nd grade. The soccer team uses a goalie now and there are actual refs on the field. It’s like the World Cup all of a sudden.

Being new to football, we can’t document the changes from 1st grade, though we learned a mouth guard is mandatory. This was a good lesson, and it came in handy when the boy had a face-on-face collision with a teammate during practice. We also learned the difference between soccer shoes and football shoes. When I was a boy, we had one kind of shoe; it was called a sneaker.

Football requires as much determined movement as soccer. This is unfortunate, since the boy uses up all his aggressive play on his little brothers. When it comes to sports with non-related children, he is a passivist.

He is also behind most of his teammates in experience, with a total of two lifetime practices under his belt. Yet he made the most of his practice time in the first game, handing the ball off twice without dropping it, and throwing one almost-complete pass.

presnap

Preparing for the snap in shotgun formation.

look it in

Going out for a pass. It’s not important whether or not he caught it.

But his finest moment was one that won’t show up in the stat sheets. He was playing the 2nd grade equivalent of Wide Receiver when the 2nd grade equivalent of Running Back ran a sweep to his side of the field. My boy threw a crucial block, allowing the runner to get around the corner for a long gain. Now, the 2nd grade equivalent of throwing a block is putting oneself in the way of the kid who is trying to rip the flag belt off your teammate, and I’m not sure my son did this on purpose or whether it was just another manifestation of his innate skill of being in the way, but it resulted in a long gain, so who cares?

All those times when, arms full of grocery bags, I tripped over him as he stooped to remove his shoes, just inside the doorway, paved the way for this wonderful moment. Just because I never played football beyond the playground doesn’t mean I’m not capable of coaching him up a little at home.

So, even though the kid may never develop into a star ball carrier or quarterback, I think there is potential for him in this game. I’ve never known a kid so talented at being in the way. As he proved on Sunday afternoon, being in the way is a vital component of the game of football. I’m not sure he’ll ever be large enough to get in the way professionally, but no one expects that.

As long as he enjoys doing it, whether he carries, throws, or catches the ball, or just puts himself in the way of the right player, we’ll cheer him on. I may even compliment him on his blocking practice next time I trip over him.

football hero

The next generation of football hero. Yup, we’re a regular pipeline of star recruits.

Three boys who built a nation

You know when you read a post on a Mommy/Daddy blog and the whole thing is an excuse for the writer to brag about his/her kid’s intellect or athleticism? Don’t you just hate that?

Good news! This will be the latest in a string of 260ish posts in which I do not brag about any of my kids’ prowess on an athletic field. Yes, I did post about my son’s first soccer goal, but that was more relief than boasting.

The bad news is that there are two more boys coming along who may develop into star athletes, should lightning strike, and who knows that you won’t be showered with tales of their goals and touchdowns through the seasons of the future.

But that’s for another day. For now, I will take the humble road and merely tell you how smart my kids are.

For his seventh birthday, Big Brother asked for a puzzle map of the United States. Since this was easier to procure than an authentic German pickelhaube, worn by a real WWI soldier, preferably his great-grandfather, I decided the map would make a fine gift. (I doubt his great-grandfather packed his pointy helmet for his voyage to America.)

Big Brother was thrilled to receive his puzzle map and, being an eager student of geography, put it together immediately. To challenge himself, he began putting it together with the pieces upside down. His enthusiasm for the map drew Buster’s attention. Before long, Big Brother was helping Buster put the map together.

east is west

When you use the pieces upside down, it makes everything seem backwards too.

We can build a nation.

Big Brother helps Buster learn the ropes. Big Man refrains from eating the pieces.

Now, Buster doesn’t know the names of the states, or their capitals, like Big Brother does, but I’ll be damned if he hasn’t learned where a good many of them go.

building a nation

This is how much Buster can put together without any help.

I would have been completely satisfied with this. It is more than enough to fill an entire post with cringe-worthy paternal pride. But Buster, his father’s son, finds joy in sharing knowledge. Like his father, he never let the fact that he only half knows what he’s doing prevent him from teaching somebody else how to do it. The world moves fast, and we can’t wait for them to wait for us to learn the whole thing.

Buster has begun teaching Big Man how to put the United States together. As of last night, Big Man could put Michigan and Maine in the right spots. That may not seem like much, but it is almost 1/3 of the Ms, and the Ms pull as much weight as anybody, state-wise.

junior partners

Buster passes his learning on to Big Man. If this cycle retains its natural course, Big Man will soon pass on his knowledge to me.

 

By this time next week, they’ll all know more about geography than I do. It’s a good thing I didn’t wait until I knew much about it to start teaching them, or maybe getting out of the way so they could learn it on their own.

Anyway, aren’t you glad I used this post to objectively document intellectual progress rather than get all puffed out about my amazing kids? Don’t you just love it when a blog is all classy like that?

Daddy’s alternate ending to “Love You Forever”

There is a downside to child-friendly eateries. When children realize an establishment caters to their desires, they tend to relax from their best eating-out behavior and view it as a playground with chicken fingers.

We have one or two restaurants where our kids need help remembering they are there to eat, not run an obstacle course. With the younger boys, I have more patience, but I had to explain to the older boy exactly what payback he was setting himself up for.

I told him that in a few years (perhaps as many as 10), it will become his duty to come fortnightly to the nursing home and pick me up. He will spend every other Friday night taking me out for casual dining, in a restaurant very similar to the one in which he is currently taking liberties.

I'll be waiting

Six o’clock sharp, every other Friday. I’ll be waiting for him in my overcoat, and whatever other clothes I’ve remembered to wear. (Image: Josh Vichon/US Farm Security Administration)

I will behave and make it seem like a pleasant visit with his old dad, until halfway through dinner, at which point I will have one of my spells and begin throwing chicken with ranch dressing and the ice cream flavor of the day onto every window my eroded flinging skills can reach.

Everybody in the restaurant will stare at us. They will conclude that I am in no condition to control myself and wonder why any responsible adult or teenaged boy (as the case may be) would bring me where I would so predictably disrupt the dinner-time peace of many innocent bystanders.

The manager will come to our table with a wad of napkins and assorted damp rags and nod meaningfully at the soiled windows. My son will begin to clean the windows, only realizing he has mis-prioritized his tasks when I hit him in the back of the head with a hunk of chicken he assumes is intended for the window. He will backtrack and clear my area of weaponizable foodstuffs before returning to the secondary task of cleaning the mess.

As he begins to make progress, I will have an “accident” (wink) in my adult diaper, causing many complaints, and leading the manager to ask him to take me out, regardless of his progress on the windows.

Yeah, you're probably not gonna want to hold me on your lap after dinner.

Yeah, you’re probably not gonna want to hold me on your lap after dinner.

It will be a relief to get me away from there, except that, despite my mental feebleness, I’m still spry, racing among the tables, taunting him with my nimble kicks.

He and three employees corner me. As he escorts me to the car, I wail in piercing tones that I haven’t had my ice cream.

He’s humiliated. I ask how many days until our next outing.

I am not sure this prophesy has any lasting effect upon him, but while he’s shaking his head in horror and thinking up excuses for missing our inaugural Friday appointment, he’s not playing tag with his brothers.

For the record, my children don’t throw food at the windows. Also, dementia is a tragic and serious illness, and I will only fake it as a last resort if my children keep pushing me toward payback.