Regular Life

Most of the time, I just can’t get enough of my son. When he’s being incorrigible? Whole “nother” story. I think I have an unfair advantage over my wife regarding the latter.

Although I get fairly high doses of Ben on the weekend, Monday through Friday life administers Shannon a nine-hour extended-release shot directly in her fine booty. When I get home, she and Ben have spent the entire day together — laughing, playing, and, on occasion, battling. It’s a war of the wills, and few things wear down one’s resolve faster than an insistent toddler. Also known as a wee willy whiner (not to be confused with the less frequently seen Wee Willy Wino, a flasher lacking notable size, which sometimes is called his Wee Willy Winky — but I digress).

On the rough days, when I get home I’m the relief pitcher for both teams (if I may use a term from a sport I haven’t followed in decades). My wife needs just a little time to relax, and Ben’s excited to see me and ready to play. Would that it were the other way around, but either is better than work, so I gladly take what I’m given.

After Ben and I spend a little time together, just father and son, we pull his mommy back into the familial unit, and things generally go fairly smoothly. Except when they don’t, but nobody goes to bed mad. Like all families, if I may join the trend of inventing verbs, we uphill and downhill together.

Ben in Control

Ben and I took a walk Monday after I got home from work. We took along his Rock, Roll ‘n Ride Trike XL, a plastic vehicle with three different riding options — rocking, being pushed, or pedaling. It was an hour of father and son time that cannot be beat.

Ben steered that trike like a pro within 10 minutes. Nevertheless, even the best make mistakes. The occasional dog barking or children playing distracted him enough that the narrow sidewalk could not contain his wandering attention. For the most part, though, he kept off the lawns. When he saw a little girl riding a bicycle with training wheels, he insisted on trying to pedal. He just could not quite make the longest reach.

About three streets over from our house, we saw two young boys peering out their window screen.

“Hey, dad, come look!” one of them said.

Evidently, Ben intepreted this as an invitation.

“No, I can’t come in your house right now,” Ben said.

Each time Ben took a turn pushing the trike, he suggested that I sit on the seat. I calmly explained that I am too big. For some reason, during these interludes Ben headed straight for every open garage, and made tracks on all the stray streaks of spray paint (three times fast) left by utility workers and contractors.

Ben a Boy?

I think my son needs a class in logic. Tuesday night, as Ben and I headed out to pick up my wallet from a restaurant, I asked him, “Are you my boy?”

“No, I not. I Benjamin.”

“Well, are you Mommy’s Boy?”

“No. I not.”

“Am I your daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are my boy.” Very logical. My parents didn’t sock away money for 18 years for me to take fluff courses in college, I tell you what.

I thought that was the end of that topic, and we spent the rest of the ride listening to The Lightning Seeds.

On the way home, I called my buddy Alvis to talk about various things in our lives. It was a shining example of what not to do while driving. To make it worse, I gladly called Alvis back after Ben said he wanted to talk to him.

I dialed, let Alvis know what was coming, and then handed Ben the phone. I’ll spare you the smalltalk, which is miniscule when coming from a toddler.

Following the mumbled patter, Ben said, very clearly, “I going home to see Mommy. Mommy is my boy.”

Distant, somewhere across the city, Alvis’ voice came through the speaker loud enough for me to hear. “Mommy is your what?”

“She’s my boy,” Ben said.

Somehow my attempt at logically explaining our relationship had gone through a spin cycle.

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