Bubble Gum Bowling

We have a more relaxed schedule at my home during summer holidays than we do during the school year.  Much like other families with school age children and parents at home in the morning, summers offer a much needed reprieve from the grind of the before-school-mornings routine.

A relaxed schedule, in my mind, is less about sleeping in until noon, and ignoring bedtimes in favor of becoming "friends" with my children, but more about the relief of being able to sleep past eight in the morning and showering mid-morning as opposed to showering at dawn.  I still expect my children to bathe and brush their teeth daily.  I still expect them to take their medicine when needed.  I still expect them to make their beds.  Essentially, I expect them to meet their obligations by completing normal tasks, only with fewer time constraints.

On one such summer holidays morning in late June, I was walking past my five-year-old son's bedroom.  In-between sips of my coffee, I glanced into his bedroom to give him a smile, hug, or whatever the occasion called for.  I was planning for this to be a bit of a drive-by so I could finish my coffee, until I noticed him squatting between his bed and his train table, not wearing his glasses.  My intention was to admonish him for the oversight, and then to tie things up with some words of encouragement, when something caught my eye: in each of his hands were the different colored balls from his toy bowling set.  Before I could say a word, he turned toward me; his face lit up into a massive grin as he exclaimed, "I'm growing bubble gum!"

Of course you are.

The Hippopotamus in the Room

Despicable Me was released when my daughter was three-years-old, and like most fans of the film, she absolutely fell in love with how Steve Carrell was able to bring "Gru" to life.  Not only is it an excellent tale of redemption, but the path to his redemption was through fatherhood — something he did not have the slightest interest in.

The most memorable part for my wife and me was when Gru makes a "pinky promise" with Agnes, his youngest daughter, because of Carrell's brilliant delivery of the sarcasm-laden, "Oh, yes!  My pinky promises!"

We laughed especially hard at this line the first time we saw the movie, mostly because we also had a young daughter who (much like Gru’s daughter) the sarcasm was completely wasted on.  My daughter, consequently, felt compelled to try to channel her inner Gru for a few a few laughs of her own, only it sounded more like, “Oh, yes!  Pinky hippopotamus!”

How reassuring.

Games and Scooters

Fatherhood brings about joys I never really anticipated prior to having children.  Since my upbringing was anything but stable, I was blindsided by the positives of having a healthy parent/child relationship.   One such positive is routinely getting to share in the life experiences of my children because they genuinely want to share them with me.

My view of the back as he read.

One evening when my son and I were the only ones home, he approached me while I was sitting at my desk.  It should be noted that the desk was between us, and as he was very young, I had to sit up a bit straighter to see him properly and ensure he had my full attention.  He had an envelope in his hand (clearly left over from some birthday or Christmas card), and from it he withdrew a small piece of paper.  There wasn’t any real writing on it, which shouldn't surprise anyone as he was only four and had yet to learn to read and write.  Although it had been folded in half many times, I could see it most likely had only one side with anything on it: a near black out of ink on a white backdrop.  The color of choice had nearly bled through completely to the point of saturation, but not quite.

He discarded the envelope on my bed at once, and began to unfold my invitation.  When the paper was completely unfolded, he read the following words aloud:

“Dear Daddy,

Please come to my birthday party.  There will be games and scooters.”

Of course there will.

The Logic of Whiskers

When my daughter was two, we had an especially lean Christmas.  We were still coming to grips with how to make ends meet after both my wife and I had lost our jobs; casualties of The Great Recession.  Fortunately for us, not all consequences of our newfound squalor were negative.  One example was my childhood Garfield plush toy.  My daughter loved stuffed animals and loved Garfield.  Not only was it logical to gift it to her (after a thorough cleaning), but she was ecstatic to receive it: win win!

Fast forward five years, and my daughter is now seven, and much more aware of how things are supposed to be.  Keep in mind that she's owned this particular toy for five years after it had belonged to me for who knows how long.  Unlike me, she actually played with him, so the mileage on the toy itself was starting to show, making her inquiry all the more curious.

With an inquisitive look on her face, she asked me about the "odd" location of the whiskers on her Garfield doll.  

"Aren't whiskers supposed to be closer to his nose?"  She asked me, genuinely confused.

"Mija," I said, "Garfield is a cartoon character, and cartoons do not have to conform to reality, because they're not real."

"But in the movie, he is real," she countered, placing emphasis on the final three words, as though this settled the matter.

Of course he is.

Trips to the ER

Every parent knows this to be a reality of parenthood because children are often the catalyst for the unexpected.  One trip to the ER was because my six-year-old daughter had slammed my son’s fingers in the door for the fourth overall time: once for every year of his life as he was four at that point.

These trips were made even more memorable whenever the attending physician required x-rays.  My son’s sensory input issues would manifest at a seemingly exponential rate, making the trip much more nightmarish.  Not only would he scream and kick and fight, we would all end up with radiation exposure and the x-ray films would end up inconclusive.

When he was four and quickly approaching his fifth birthday, we were able to reason with him more.  His fascination with robots and the like enabled us to describe most “scary looking” medical equipment as such to help him deal with his anxiety, thus the x-ray machine became a giant robot.  The x-ray technician was very helpful and realized the machine would make a noise that may prove unnerving for my son so he activated the machine while everyone was behind the protective wall to see what his reaction would be.  When the x-ray machine made it’s operating noise (kind of like a warble), it bothered my son enough for the creation of another explanation: the robot is just talking (kudos to my wife).

“Do you hear it talking?”  My wife asked him.

“Yes!”  He answered her after some consideration.  “OK ROBOT!  I’LL BE RIGHT THERE!”  He yelled to the x-ray machine from behind the wall.

It was the first time we were able to obtain definitive x-rays of my son in any capacity.  We were fortunate to have such an accommodating x-ray technician, who allowed my son to view the results.  These proved to be the most powerful images of my son’s young life: he was the proud owner of a skeleton hand!  By sheer coincidence, he had been learning about human bones and our general skeletal makeup in school, and these images made it more real for him than any school lesson ever could.

He was excited beyond containment.  He tried to match his hand position perfectly by placing it on top of the screen displaying the digital x-rays, rotating his hand as needed for alignment.  It was all he spoke about the rest of the time we were in the ER.  It was all he spoke about on the hour-long trip home.  It was all he spoke about until he fell asleep that night.  He may have even dreamed about his skeleton hand — who knows?!

The next day at school, he couldn’t stop shoving his hand in everyone’s faces and explaining how he has a skeleton hand.  The x-rays were conclusive and (thankfully) he didn’t have a broken finger — but that was entirely secondary to my son and his skeleton hand.  He was a proud owner.

The Gnarly of Scars

One of the realities of parenthood is the role of caretaker whenever injuries and maladies occur.  Though this is not my forte and I usually defer to my wife, there are occasions when I am thrust into the fold and have to make the best of things.

On one such occasion, we were getting the children ready to leave for a bowling lesson.  These were lessons provided by our local bowling alley that included weeks of lessons and a personalized ball, all for less than the retail cost of a single ball prior to personalization — an exceptional value.  This particular lesson was to be their last, when they would be receiving their brand new bowling ball, and would be able to complete the lesson using said ball.  

Since children tend to behave like children, and mine are no different, my children were not ready when it was time to leave and instead opted to engage in the panicked rush of last second tasks.  During this rush, my daughter, who was seven at the time, slid her pants across the foyer threshold and got it stuck on a nail.  Rather than taking her time to determine the cause of the snag, she forced her leg forward, snag be damned.  Unfortunately for her, giving into her impatience proved reckless as she sliced her knee open on the foyer threshold nailhead.

Cue the blood-curdling scream of pain.

After we were able to calm her down and take a look, not only were her pants ruined, but she had quite a nasty cut on her knee.  Naturally, an urgent care visit was in order, immediately causing my daughter to proclaim, "I don't want stitches," through melancholy tears.

"What would you prefer," I asked her placatingly, "a big, gnarly scar or stitches?"

"A big, gnarly scar," she proclaimed, as she sobbed and hugged me even tighter.

Who wouldn't want another scar?!  As it turns out, they didn't bother with stitches at urgent care (preferring to use glue instead).

On the plus side, my daughter was a regular celebrity when we arrived late to bowling as all had been informed of her injury and wanted assurances that she was now on the mend.  She may not have been able to use her new ball during the last lesson the way her brother was able to, but she was able to use it for subsequent visits.

Although she preferred the big, gnarly scar to stitches, she ended up with neither, which suited her just fine.

Father's Day Barbecue

I bought myself a barbecue for Father's Day as a gift.  That may sound strange for anyone to replace a perfectly good grill, but we had to replace my old one when we made the full commitment to make our household both gluten and dairy free due to severe allergies.  Cross-contamination may be a myth for some, but ignoring the reality has painful, life-threatening consequences nobody should have to endure.  We were also planning on traveling and needed something more portable for meal preparation considering our inability to eat at restaurants of any kind, so we settled on the Weber 18-½" Jumbo Joe grill.  

My six-year-old son enthusiastically helped me assemble it.  He was especially excited as he had never eaten barbecued food because of his dietary restrictions and was looking forward to his first smokey bites.  When we were finished putting it together, he looked at it proudly (as this particular grill was meant as a table topper and only reached his waist) and said with gusto:

"Your barbecue is sure my size!"

Of course it is.

He also insisted on making "do not touch" signs, only he had just finished kindergarten and spelled it "do not tush."  I took pictures and some videos and had a great time bonding with my son.

Father's Day is perhaps just another day on the calendar or another day of barbecuing in the backyard for some, but for me, Father's Day is about time spent with my wife and children, sharing my love of cooking.  Despite it being a day where they are socially obligated to show their appreciation for me, it usually ends up reminding me of how much I appreciate them.