Scent of a Soft Drink

Twice, I've taken the Pepsi Cola Challenge. Twice, I picked Pepsi. So as far as the cola wars go, you know whose side I'm on. I have been trying to cut down recently with all the exercising and stuff, but I'll admit to some more recent backsliding. In fact I had bought three bottles of the stuff from the store - it wasn't even on special.


It's a slippery slope.

The one in the fridge having been emptied, I went to get one of the others which were ... gone!

I was sure there were two more left. Did I drink all three bottles and not realize it? But there was that mysterious comment that the Boy had made a couple of days ago about missing bottles. I took a chance.

Me: What did you say about the Pepsi bottles. Do you know where they are?

Boy: Yes, I'll go find them.

He disappeared for a moment into the downstairs den and came back lugging a bag full of 2L bottles.

Me: How did you know where those were?





 Boy: I thought I smelled Pepsi behind the couch and-

- and I interrupted him with a growl and a laugh and gave him a hug.

The Time I Got Shot

Boy: Your rock mark is less.

Me: My what?

Boy: Your rock mark?

We were in the shower at T-bedtime minus 30 minutes. I had been to the gym working out for the hour between getting home from work and picking him up from the day care. We got some take-away from Subway, came home and had it for supper, studied together for his spelling test of the morrow, rehearsed for his piano recital that's a couple of weeks hence and still had time a little time left over to play Playstation. On workout days, we usually save water and shower with a friend. For me, that's him and for him that's me.

It's almost five months now that I've been bustin' it at the gym. I've lost about 10, 11 pounds. Something like that. My neighbour kidded me the other day about how I'm going to be shirtless this year doing all the lawn work, showing off. I feel better and my clothes fit better except the ones that are getting too big. I figure come soccer and t-ball, I'll be better at keeping up with the Boy.

Last year I was one of the assistant coaches for his t-ball team and frankly felt old and useless. My best attribute was been able to keep the kids engaged and encouraged. I remember one day I lifted the tail of my shirt from my pants and showed them the scar in my back. It looks like a bullet hole and I said it was when I got shot once. The kids were enthralled. Wow! When? In the war, I told them. It's from when I got shot in the war. I never did tell them that the scar was a result of having a kidney stone removed using the old-fashioned method known as percutaneous nephrolithotomy. It was the tube that was fitted in my back that left the "bullet hole" scar.

Or, as I realized after puzzling it out in the shower, what the Boy was calling my rock mark.

I further reasoned to myself that the mark must be less dimpled as a result of having lost some weight. Since it's behind me on my back, you'll be surprised to find out that I don't see much of that scar. But I was encouraged that if the Boy was noticing something enough to mention it, then all that hard work at the gym was evidently not in vain. I allowed myself a small measure of feeling good about that.

As we were finishing up our shower, the Boy observed to me very clinically:

Boy: Dadda, you're still a little bit fat.

Knowing What You Got

Teach your children well. Never miss an opportunity to teach. The most fundamental lesson? Good things get rewarded. This occured to me as we were driving the other day, the Boy in the backseat, and we pass Pinky Somebody's Ice Cream. Now, it's not really Pinky Somebody. It's Pinky ... and I don't remember what the last name is. You probably figured that out already, har Edith? Let's just call it Pinky's.

Pinky's is a shack. A pink shack. Last year the pink shack was too close to the Dairy Queen, apparently, so this year it's moved a couple of kilometers down the road to an empty space where there's a phone booth where motorists can stop to call from a car-height (like that gets a lot of use) and where in December the Lion's sell Christmas trees. Pinky's sells those tasty and off-beat ADL flavours of ice cream like Bubblegum, Rainbow and Brownies on the Moon. A Boy, you won't be surprised to hear, is very keen on their ice cream.

Me: Hey, the Pinky's ice cream has moved. Look where it is.

Boy: Hey, yeah! We should go there more this year.

Me: That's right. We only found it at the end of summer last year and we didn't get to go very often.

Boy: This year we should go lots.

Me (inspired): Well, okay, but you know that ice cream is only for boys who are good and well behaved, so you'll have to make sure that you're good and polite and do what mommy and daddy say with no back talk and without all that grade one attitude.

Boy: And keep my cute little face.

In the rear-view, I see him beaming his best smile at me.

Attitudinal Adjustment

Yesterday, I found an old diary on my computer from 2001 when my son was not yet two years old and prone to biting his mother and father when cuddled. Times sure have changed. When school started we were forewarned and ready for the behavioural changes that come from being around gangs of kids all seemingly searching their peers for that lowest common denominator. Grade One Attitude, my wife calls it. A couple of recent examples:

The Boy and I are playing Hot Shots Golf Fore. There's a course in the game that's been laid out as if in an Asian Jungle. On the 16th hole, the fairway is interrupted by a giant statue of a reclining Buddha. You learn after only one try that you have to lay back with your tee shot, otherwise, you won't be able to get your approach shot over the statue, it's that big. I played first, picked about a five wood and laid up short in the fairway. The Boy didn't.

Me: You won't get over that statue, you're too close.

The Boy disagreed. I hit my shot over the statue and then it was the Boy's turn, me clucking and tsk-tsking about how he wasn't going to make it. The Boy hit and the ball shot through a tiny crease in the Buddha's neck, firing between his shoulder and jowl. The ball landed on the green.

Boy: How do you like that, Mr. I-Don't-Know-Everything?

Grade One Attitude. Now, I'll tell you about this other one, but I'll let you know it came with a sight gag when Mamma told the story to me. I'll try it anyway.

The last few days, the Boy has been very good sleeping through the night in his own bed, a reversal of a recent trend. During the weeks that he would trek over to get in bed with Mamma, she asked him why he didn't stay in his own room.

Boy: Because I wanted to cuddle with someone.

Mamma (referring to the stuffed animals in the Boy's bunk): Well, why don't you cuddle with Pierre or Teddy or Oochie?

The next night was the same; Boy comes over to sleep in Mamma's bed.

Mamma: Why won't you stay in your own bed at night?

Boy: Because I wanted to cuddle with someone (and here he cants his head sideways and turns up his nose) ... who's ALIVE.

More Than He Could Stomach.

The golfing day was done and the Boy and I were reclining in the big comfy chairs next to the unlit fireplace, enjoying our after-game snack and drink. A bottle of red Gatorade was split between two ice-filled glasses for our enjoyment and refreshment. The clock behind us was creeping up on the supper hour and so I indicated we should finish up and head out to the car and home. I raised my glass to finish my drink and the Boy reached for his. In a moment it became obvious that he was trying to race me (at first) or keep up with me (second) as I downed my drink. He was mildly put out that he wasn't able. Sensing a mood shift in what had been a delightful afternoon so far, I grabbed him and hugged him, playfully teasing him over the attempt.

Me: Oh, you weren't ever going to win. I have such a big mouth and you have a lovely little mouth.

Boy: And you have really big guts and I only have little guts.

Florida: The 2nd Thing.

I was awake for too much of the weekend.

On Saturday I stayed awake to watch Battlestar Gallactica and tape them for a friend at work who doesn't get that brand of cable at his house. There were three shows at an hour a piece. Sunday, last night, was Sopranos night. So when bedtime finally came, I was ready to sleep.

Instead, I thought about Florida.

The brain is a strange thing, offering up bits of creativity unsolicited. The muse fires up, engages and keeps you awake longer than you want to. I've written complete stories in my head when all I've wanted, desperately wanted, was to get to sleep. Last night in my head, I wrote about the motel. I wrote about our pool. I wrote about the run  I had along El Mar drive. I wrote about Hollywood beach and the big surf.

I remembered what the second thing was from a previous conversation.

There were two primary differences between the beaches of Lauderdale-by-the-Sea and Hollywood. The first was that there were a lot more people at Hollywood. More people on the beach, more people in the water, more people walking the shops and sidewalks.

The second difference was the waves.

The waves in Lauderdale broke twice. The first time they break farther out where there is a bit of a sandbar and the waves rumble up, curl and then slide a bit without completely breaking. The second time, when they break for real, is where the sand comes up steeply from the water and so the waves break very close to the shore. When the conditions of tide and wind are just right, you can try to body surf them either out by the end of the sand bar, or closer in at shore.

At Hollywood the waves come in big and curl and break uninterrupted to the shore. You can ride them puppies.

The Boy and I were in the water at Hollywood while Mamma stayed on the beach. We were having a great time in the surf, catching some good waves and riding them. The way you do it is wait for a wave that's big and has a really good curl to it. You wait, time it right, and start swimming hard so you hit the curl just right. The wave takes over and you tuck your hands flat against your hips and ride that sucker like an arrow shot from a bow. If you're not quite right to the wave, or if the wave just decides to be a bit ornery, it folds you under its curl and spins you.

The Boy got spun.

The other thing you should know about the beaches in South Florida is that the "sand" is crushed seashells. When the Boy was spun in the wave, it crashed him into the sandy bottom and he came up with a collection of parallel slashes (that were really only scratches) along his chest. It looked like he had a shaving accident with a really big three-bladed razor. As always when he's hurt, he looks up at me, his eyes wide and pleading with a question and that question is: Daddy, how bad am I hurt?

I tend to downplay these things when I can. It's not that I try to be cold or unfeeling or anything like that, it's as an equivalent to reassurance. You're okay. It's okay. If I'm light with it, he won't think it's bad (when it is bad, I hold him and cuddle him and coo to him for as long as he needs). This time I turned his scrapes into trophies.

Me: Dude! You took a ride in the washing machine!

I don't often say "dude".

We showed Mommy his scrapes and told how he was rolled in the "washing machine". But that was the end of body-surfing for the Boy.

The next morning we're back in the motel room. Sportscentre is on. We're having our breakfast. In a little while we'll go out to the pool, the best part of the day for a Boy. He already has his bathing suit on and is getting ready to go. He comes over to me on the bed and presents his little chest.

Boy: Daddy, can you look at my surfer dude mark?

Alpha Male

The Boy has a new girlfriend. Her name is Claudia. Apparently her favours shifted from a different boy on the schoolyard to my son. I'm not completely clear on why, but hey, Grade One's complicated. And I'm overstating the relationship of course, but that's something else that parents do with their children. Because it's fun. I grilled the Boy on the new girl to get an idea on how this all came about. He said he asked to play with her over recess and this time she said yes. Something close to that.

I was quick to moralize.

That's the value of being persistent, I said.

Claudia, apparently, likes to play Playstation. The Boy has invited her over to our house to play a game that they both like:
Hot Shots Golf Fore. It's a game the the Boy has been playing a lot lately. It's replaced Crash NitroCart as his favourite one to play. I know it's only a video game, but I'm surprised at how much better he's been getting at it lately. I also like that it's such a good simulation of the game, that he's picking up nuances that he can take to the real golf course. How the wind, the  lie of the ball, the slope of the ground, the break on the green all contribute to what you need to do to make a good shot.

I came home the other day and he's downstairs playing.

Me: Hi. How are you doing?

Boy: Claudia is coming over to play. I'm practicing just in case she's good.