Most days after school I ask the Boy what he learned about and most times he replies, "Nothing" at which point I exclaim, then what are we doing paying money to send you t school?" and he laughs.
Back from Sunday School I asked him again what he learned about and in a bored voice he answered:
Boy: Just Jesus.
As maybe a follow-on to the whole Pluto discussion (even though we had this discussion before I'd found out he'd been talking to Mommy about Pluto) , the Boy was asking some questions in the backseat the other day.
Boy: How many people are there in the world?
Me: Hmm. Seven billion? Eight billion? Something like that I think.
Boy: I think there are 10 billion.
Me: You do.
Boy: Yes. Do you know how many stars there are in the universe?
Me: Wow. I don't know. A lot.
Boy: There's 10 billion stars. So there's one for every person in the world.
In my brief research for this post, I found that other parents have linked the demise of Pluto as a planet to the song they learned with their children about our planets in the solar system. The song came from the TV program, Blue's Clues and I confess it was one of the first things I thought about when I read that astronomers had stripped Pluto of its planetary status.
Because that program and the song were familiar to both of us, Mamma and I each and independently thought to trick the Boy with the revised answer to the "How many planets are there?" question. My try didn't work because Mamma had already beaten me to the punch.
Mamma: Do you know how many planets there are?
Boy (counting): Nine.
Mamma: Wrong! Eight! Pluto's not a planet anymore.
Boy: WHAT?!?!?!
Mamma: Yes! Pluto's not a planet anymore.
Boy: WHAT?!?!?!
Mamma: The scientists all got together and decided that Pluto wasn't a planet anymore.
Boy: Well! What do the people on Pluto think about that?
One of the Boy's new friends lives only a couple of minutes up the road from us. The neighbourhood changes from our series of link homes and town houses to a markedly more upscale set of houses, set back on amongst the trees in some more out-of-the-way places. The friend's mom owns a couple of salons. They have a cottage on the lake that they invited to Boy to on a sleep-over, this was back more at the start of the season, a point important to the story in that the cabin wasn't completely stocked with supplies. We weren't sure about sending the Boy by himself to the lake, but he was excited to go spend some time with his friend - a girl. The girl's mom confided that her daughter liked playing more with Boy than the other girls since he was more fun. They did more stuff. Like combing the backyard for slugs. Stuff like that.
"He cracks me up," she said to us when they came back from their sleepover. "I love him, the things he says!"
Uh-oh, we thought, what happened.
Well, what had happened was that the Boy was hungry and asked for ...
Boy: Can I have a peanut butter and honey sandwich?
Sheila: Oh, we don't have any.
Boy: Can I have just peanut butter then?
Sheila: No, we don't have any peanut butter. There's not much in the cupboards right now. I'm sorry.
Boy: Well, can't you just go to the Superstore?
Sheila: Well, not right now, we can't.
Boy (thinking this over for a moment): Are you poor?
August has the holy trinity of birthdays: Mother, Wife and Son (in order of appearance). The Boy and I are out making preparations for the middle one which involves - among other things - going to Sobeys to pre-order the cake. The Boy and I discussed the options and decide on a white cake with pink and yellow trim with pink frosting flowers and a message that read "Happy Birthday Mamma Bird". A day later I got a call at work.
Mamma: I know you went to Sobey's to get a cake for me.
Me: How do you know that? A Boy must have said something.
Mamma: Well, I asked him how his day was and he said, "I went to Sobeys with Dada but it had nothing to do with your birthday."
It's a bumper berry crop this year.
Earlier in the week, Mamma took the Boy hunting for blackberries alongside the train tracks, close to the community swimming pool. It's not peak season yet; most of the berries still have to ripen. There are thousands and thousands of them this year. And even only picking the early arrivals, Mamma and the Boy came home with a healthy-sized harvest.
It was another beautiful weekend this weekend. Sunny and warm. I resolved less TV/internet/PlayStation; more outdoors. I told Mamma that the plan for Saturday was to go swimming after we went berry picking. She warned me that they had already got all of the ripe ones and that there probably weren't a lot more ready to be picked. She was wrong.
The next morning before going to work, she asked the Boy how the berry-picking went.
Mamma: Did you find a lot of blackberries?
Boy: Only quite a very many few.
The portable DVD player played an important role in this year's Father's Day.
The Boy and I went to visit my parents for the weekend (and my sister and her boys), unfortunately leaving Mamma behind to work her early morning shifts. The trip to the Valley is an hour and a half by car. It used to be shorter, but then the gas prices went up and to conserve gas, I don't drive so fast anymore. Since I've strarted driving the speed limit, I've been very interested to see the number of cars that line up impatiently behind me in the no-passing zone.
On Sunday morning the Boy presented me with my father's day present. It was a Titletist golf ball, an NXT Tour, one of my favourite brands. The ball was dirty and scuffed. "Where did you get this?" I asked him.
"I went shopping," he replied smartly. I laughed and he fessed up about having found it yesterday in the woods when we were playing with Poppa and looking for one of my wayward shots.
The rest of my cards and prizes were at home waiting for us to get back. All but one.
It was over 30 degrees Celsius both days we were there. My parents have an above-ground pool behind the house and I had just come back from a run. The Boy and I were alone in the pool, everyone else having gone to church. I was having my own spiritual moment with the Boy, holding him in the water. Just the two of us hugging each other. It was the best part of the weekend.
A few minutes later, the Boy was out warming himself on the deck as I wandered some more around the pool. I was starting to think about the drive home.
"What movie do you want to watch on the way home? Do you want to finish watching The Incredibles or do you want to watch the Thomas the Tank Engine movie?"
"Ummmm, The Incredibles," he said.
"Yeah. That's a good movie, isn't it. It's one of my favourite movies ever."
"Why?" the Boy wanted to know.
"Well, it's a good story and it's funny and it's just really fun to watch."
"What's your favourite part?"
Hmmm, I thought. What is my favourite part? I started to run the movie in my head waiting a moment to see what scene would jump out at me as my favourite.
"You know what my favourite part is?" asked the Boy.
I thought about the scene where Dash is whippity-whapping the bad guy in the face, speedy punches just before the flying machine crashes into the cliff. For some reason, I thought this was going to be what he said was his favourite part, but instead of pre-judging him, I said, "No, what?"
"Watching it with you," he said and my Father's Day was made.
What's for dinner?
There's a pot on the stove full of water, ready to boil. I put it there at lunch time figuring to make the Boy and I some spaghetti (Mamma's at work). I further planned to order out for some pizza for supper. But when I went into the fridge at lunch time, there was the brown bag of leftover Chinese food. Better get rid of that first. So Chinese for me, PB&J for the Boy and save money on take out by having the spaghetti for supper. Or maybe not. There's other stuff in the freezer. Let's check with the Boy.
Me: What would you like for supper: spaghetti of pasta?
Boy: Pasta! Ummm..... Rollie Poly. Rollie Olie?
Me: ... Ravioli?
Boy: Yes!
Me (grinning): Give me a kiss.
Out in the park, after school, two amateur entomologists (the Boy and his best friend) explore the world around them. The best friend has some sort of necklace in which are stored captured bugs. I wondered when hearing of this, how this could be other than an instrument of torture for the bug. My wife, who was relating the story to me, mentioned off-hand how she should have made sure the boy had his bug vacuum, which is exactly what it sounds like. A little dust buster type contraption to suck up and store the bugs in a plastic tube for the purpose of ... observation (yeah, right). These contraptions seem completely designed for little boys and just stop short of actually pulling wings off flies.
So anyway, the Boy and his pal are out playing with bugs and the pal is constantly shaking the necklace that has the bug inside of it.
Boy: Stop it! You're going to make it even more dead!
We were playing PlayStation Golf. The Boy asked me to play one of the tournaments and I'd just hit a bad shot.
Me: Oh ... darn it.
Boy: I thought you were going to say "fuck".
Me: (... ? ? ! ? ? ...)
Me: You thought I was going to say what?
Boy: Fuck.
I gently advised him that that wasn't a very nice word for a small Boy.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
On the third night since I returned home from Houston the Boy and I were going through our night-time routine and had got to the point where it was time to pick out a book. The night previous we had read the one I'd bought in Houston. You should know that on nights where it's not a rush to get to bed on time, the Boy picks out the book. On other nights, I'll pick one out. Often a short one. On this night, we had time so the Boy picked.
Boy: I pick THIS one!
Me: Hey. We read that last night. You want to read it again?
Boy: Yes. Because this is my new best book.
Me: It is, is it?
Boy: Yes, because you bought it for me.
Me: Oh, that's very nice.
Boy: So it's the very best book I have.
Me: Oh thank you.
Boy: And you are the very best Daddy ...
(Wow! I thought.)
Boy (cont): ... that I have.
We laughed together.
Our normal routines are in complete disarray since the wife is on a full week of having to report to work at 4am. This means my work day shifts from 7am - 3pm to 9am - 5pm on account of somebody has to get the Boy to the schoolbus. That would be me. And I'm finding those two hours of "Me Time" that I'm not getting anymore in the late afternoon make all the difference in the world when you're not able to get to the gym or the driving range (recently open) or for any after-work chores.
So early in the week, fresh back from my business trip to Houston, I decided to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things we needed then head over to the Daycare to get the Boy. You should know that the past two weeks involved a family trip to Florida, a family trip to Newfoundland to spend Easter with Nanny, being fogged in and stuck for an extra day in Newfoundland, Daddy leaving the very next morning after that (4 am) for the Houston trip, Mommy having a big reunion party downtown and the Boy being travelled up to stay with Granny and Poppa since both Mommy and Daddy were gone for the weekend. All this to say that there wasn't much opportunity to grocery shop for the period of two full weeks. The fridge and the cupboards were pretty empty. I took it on myself to get a few things to make supper and make sure that the cats at least had some food for the next couple of days.
From the store's parking lot, I called the Daycare (me walking toward the big front entrance to the store) to let them know I'd be there in about 10 minutes to pick the Boy up, please get him ready.
The lady on the phone said that Mamma had already picked him up.
I stopped walking. As far as I knew, Mamma wasn't supposed to be home yet. I thanked the Daycare, hung up and called the house. A Boy picked up the phone.
Me: Hi. I thought you were still at the Daycare! I just called them to say I was coming and they told me that you were already gone!
Boy: Mamma already came and picked me up.
Me: Yeah? How was your day?
Boy: Good.
Me: What's Mamma doing. Getting supper ready?
Boy: Yes.
Me: Hmmm. Does she need me to get anything while I'm here at the store?
Boy: She already went to the store.
Me: She what?
Boy: Yes, she went to the store before she came to pick me up. Where are you?
Me: I'm at the store right now. I came straight here from work to get something for uus for supper and then pick you up.
Boy: Well, that was a waste of time.
There is a well established routine for the end of the day. There actually are two, if my suspicions are correct. Mamma has a Boy-routine and I have a slightly different one. The routine goes very much like this:
Some nights he's very chatty. Some nights we giggle and talk. We'll add "God-blesses" to the prayer if we encountered certain people during the day. But on some nights the Boy just wants to get to sleep ... without pre-empting the most important part of the routine. It's a very polite way of telling Daddy to shut up.
Boy: I'll just sleep. You just rub my back.
