Ode to a Friend

I dedicate this ode to you, my friend, on this, the day of your birth.  As you begin work on your 34th year and stand, reflecting on what has come to pass and what you have yet to face, count me among the men who will proudly stand along with you. 

As I sit each day and write, I ponder the impact that I have had upon my own children and family.  I think, most often, of two things as I consider my actions both past and future, and strive to find the inherent humor in this game we call parenting.  The first, or course, is my wife.  The second is you.  I see so much of myself in you and feel your influence on me.  As I watch you parent, I am often reminded of the things I have thought, and done, and said.  I wonder when I changed, and why, and I laugh.  I wonder if you'll change in similar ways and look back, years from now, the way I have, to see if the man you are then recognizes the man you are now.  I hope you'll share that with me.

We are different men, to be sure, but we are the same man in so many ways.  While I do not speak Girl and you, sir, have only just begun to speak Boy, it is the bond of so many other languages that unites us.  We, the two of us, speak son and brother, husband and father.  It is here where we will always find the common ground.  It is here where our differences become our strengths and our similarities become the stuff of legend.

I may call you my best friend and you may or may not call me yours.  Too often, people fail to understand that one is not dependent on the other and ultimately has no bearing on our friendship.  I remind my sons regularly that labels are just that - labels.  If you buy a can of tomato soup but the label says "chicken noodle," it will still be tomato no matter what you call it.

Our friendship does not need to be carefully laid out in so many words or actions.  As you have reminded me, there are no rules.  Constant affirmations are not required.  When it is the right time to speak, the words will be there.  They may not always be the ones that we want to hear but they will always be the ones that we need to hear.  When it is the right time to listen, we will know and we will be silent.  There is no score keeping or concern about reciprocation.  You will call on me and I on you.  And in our time, that call will be answered without hesitation.

If today is the last day that I see you and our paths do not cross again, I will not worry.  We are destined to meet in the future and they will know that we are friends.  I am my own man, of course, but I am not the same man because I have known you.  When I shake your hand, I know this to be true.

Take note, my boys, for this is how a true friendship works.  I pray every day that you will find this in your lifetimes.  Like anything in life worth having, (marriage, children, family) this too will require blood and sweat and tears.  Do not take it for granted.  Do not smother it or let it die from neglect.  This is one of the many unspoken treasures of how to speak Boy.

Happy birthday, my friend.

Corporeal Connection

Saturday morning - 8 AM

"Dad!" Logan came sobbing into the room.

"What is it now?" I asked, through a mouth full of toothpaste.

"Justin just kicked my butt."

Years ago, when I was a newish father and only had two boys, I would have had a tendency to overreact.  Now, however, 22 parenting years told me that there was more to this story.

A little investigative questioning revealed what I already suspected.  No butts were actually kicked in the making of this pseudo action adventure.  Justin had been asked to help correct Logan's pants which were half-way inside out.  Logan, being the typical younger brother, was reluctant to accept assistance from his older brother.  And by reluctant, I mean outright refusal.  I believe it went something like this.

"Logan!  Give me your pants!" Justin shouted.  He was already mad because he had been asked to stop what he was doing (which amounted to exactly nothing) and help.

"NO!"

"Logan, give them to me now!" Justin hollered.

"Don't touch my pants!" Logan shrieked.

"I'm gonna kick you butt!" Justin shouted.

As Logan ran away, waving the pants over his head, Justin literally took a swing with his foot at the departing backside of his youngest brother and, having failed to connect with anything corporeal, fell over.  That, apparently, constituted a butt-kicking in Logan's book.

From where I sit, it seems as though Justin just kicked his own butt.  Just sayin'...

It's going to be a long morning.

- 10 March 2012

Wrong Answer

"Can my friends come to my grandma's house to play on the Slip'N Slide?"

Ugh!  All I wanted to do was take out the garbage.  Strike that.  All I needed to do was take out the garbage.  Now, suddenly, a mine field lay directly in my path. 

One thing you should know about Logan is that his next oldest brother is five years his senior.  Yes, we continuously remind him that older boys get to do different things than younger boys.  If we've said it once, we've said it a hundred times, "you're on a different plan, Logan."  But for all the good it does, we might as well come clean about The Great Pumpkin and The Holiday Armadillo.  If it's good enough for Justin and Ethan, it's good enough for Logan.  In fact, in his mind, it's probably better because a three-year-old won't be jaded and cynical.

What was the point I was trying to make?  Simply that Logan has yet to grasp the finer points of preschool relationships versus grade school and middle school relationships.  Other children in his demographic are unlikely to drop by unannounced or catch a ride home from the sitter.  They seldom stay for dinner on a school night or travel hundreds of miles to see your grandmother's nifty summertime yard toys.  In spite of his dismal chances, he never fails to ask anyway.  You say determination.  I say enough already.

"I don't think they'll want to go all the way to Pullman just to play on the Slip'N Slide, Logan," I said. 

Even as I said it, I knew that we weren't just about to be finished.

"But they'll like my grandma." he continued.

"Well, who wouldn't?" I said in agreement.

My brain was grappling with the illogical path that this conversation was beginning to take.  He uttered a noise of exasperation.

"Yes they will!" he insisted in affronted tones.

There was a mounting sense of stress and anxiety on Logan's part and an increasing sense of nausea on mine.  Stop the ride, I want to get off, please.  I uttered a noise of exasperation.

"I know.  I agree," I said raising my voice.

He came racing around the corner from the dining room so that he could look me right in the face.

"But she's nice!!" he shouted, fists clenched at his sides.

Oh for heaven's sake, fine!  I give up.  How did this become my fault?  You do whatever you think you need to do.  Gather your friends and start packing.  Oh, and don't forget to pack some extra crazy, it's a long car ride!

I need a drink.

- 7 March 2012

Favorite Things

"Can we move to a new house tomorrow?" Logan asked.

"Tomorrow?  Why?" I asked, hardly daring to guess what entertaining answer lay in store.

"'Cause this will be a haunted house tomorrow," he said fretfully as he began an interpretive dance that suggested continued alertness to potential otherworldly activities be the order of the day.

"It will?"

"Yes."

"Why will it be haunted tomorrow?" I inquired.

"'Cause that's it's favorite thing to do."

Of course.

- 7 March 2012

Boys Are a Chore

"Daddy?"

Logan appeared in the kitchen doorway holding an empty plastic grocery bag.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Can you get the thingy out of Mommy's garbage and I can put in a new one?"

Had I not seen the shopping bag, I would have been alarmed at the possible identity of the "thingy".

"Sure," I said and we made our way to Ashley's bathroom to remove the wastebasket liner, which had been properly identified as full.

Only minutes before, Logan had come up from the basement to ask me for help.  I agreed to assist him only after I had completed my chores.  Tonight, girls cooked so boys cleaned.  We outlined my remaining tasks, several times, and Logan went off, as he usually did, to fetch whatever cleaning implements he could find and/or reach.  I had not made this request of him, nor had I any idea if they would turn out to be helpful, let alone cleaning tools.

Enter the grocery bag.

It's darling how badly he wants to be included, especially in the chores.  To that end, he had originally emerged from the basement to seek help with folding his clean laundry.  Yes, that's right, my three-year-old wanted me to drop everything and help him fold clothes.  To him, it was a source of great distress that it was already Wednesday and his older brothers had folded their laundry on Sunday.

After emptying the bathroom wastebasket, I returned to the kitchen to finish tidying up while Logan busied himself with the new liner.  A few minutes later it occurred to me that Logan had not come back...and now it was quiet.  Too quiet.

"Logan?" I called.

No answer.

"Logan!" I barked.

Again, no answer.  Still fresh in my mind was the memory of yesterday when he locked himself in the bathroom to "give his dinosaurs a bath" and bathed everything except the dinosaurs.  Suddenly, he came running down the hall clapping his hands and materialized, yet again, in the doorway.  His expression was proud and his hands were wet.  Why were his hands wet?  I heard no water running.  I heard no running water!

"I cleaned the toilet!"

Holy hand sanitizer Batman!

- 7 March 2012

Whoops

It amuses me that the commercials for Play-Doh contain the tagline, "...fun to play with, not to eat."  Umm, it is too fun to eat...since 1955.  I am personally acquainted with at least a dozen people my own age who can instantly recall, with unfailing clarity, the exact salty flavor.

This afternoon, while Logan was home sick from school, the Play-Doh commercial began.  He sat transfixed, as I made lunch, and watched.

"Fun to play with and to eat," I said, smacking my lips.

"And to eat?" Logan exclaimed in disgust, wrinkling his nose.

Apparently, the culinary value of this modeling compound had never been properly considered.  Comprehension was dawning.

"No, I was just teasing," I said, seeing the mingled horror and delight register on his face.

"But that man said 'fun to play with and to eat'," he reminded me.

No sweetheart, that man was Daddy.  The man on the television set said "not to eat".  Oh boy.  Ashley had managed to keep him from eating Play-Doh for three summers running and I managed to change all of that in less than three seconds.  I'm not sure how I'm going to be able to pass this one off as he is currently running around the kitchen hollering, "Fun to play with!  Fun to eat!" interspersed with peels of maniacal laughter.

- 6 March 2012

Fella's Cake Bake 2010

Han Solo Frozen in Carbonite

- 27 February 2010