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.