Regular Life

(Falcon has come to a close.)

Friday at work I got a call from Shannon. She asked if it was okay if one of her friends left her son, N, at Ben’s grammy’s house. Shannon was leaving town for a ladies’ overnight getaway, and this particular friend needed someone to fill the gap between the time they left town and when her husband finished a meeting that started at 4 p.m.

That’s where Ben’s grammy comes into the picture.

So, why did it matter to me?

My plan was to pick up Ben at the in-laws’ house after work, then go home. I got to the house at about 5:30. N’s dad still wasn’t there.

Grammy was a great help, and I flew solo for only about an hour and a half while she and Pa went out to eat. Ben and I were invited, and they graciously waited until I heard from N’s dad, because he and I probably would take the boys out once he arrived. At 6:15, he called to let me know that the meeting was going longer than expected, and he thought it might be another 30 minutes.

Bye-bye in-laws.

Long story short, I was there until about 9:20 with Ben and a two-year-old. Believe it or not, I had a great time. N was his usual mild-mannered self. Read on for the “short story long” version.

I covered the whole childcare gamut. I played trains with them, held them both while they cried, took them for a walk, and fed them. Okay, so I didn’t take anybody potty or change a diaper. Make that 80% of the gamut.

At one point, Ben was rushing up to N and growling, which upset N enough that he started a quiver-lip cry. I told Ben “No!” which got him going, and then, I ended up picking up both of them for comfort. I needed to do something else to change their focus.

“You want to go for a walk?” They both perked up.

Outside the front door, N saw his mommy’s vehicle sitting on the street. He said, “My mommy’s comin’.”

I tensed up, because kids this age can be powderkegs when it comes to being away from their mommies. You think everything’s fine, and then the tiniest thing sends out a spark. Things like their mommy’s vehicle.

I tried to defuse the toddler bomb, without feeding the kid a line. “Well, you’re your mommy’s not coming right now, but you’re your daddy is.”

He didn’t explode.

We made our way along the sidewalk, mercifully shaded by large old trees in the 100-degree heat. Each boy held one of my hands as we headed west. Ben held a toy train locomotive in his other hand, while N toted a toy firetruck.

Within 30 seconds, Ben stopped to pick up a stick. Soon after, so did N. This relegated me to wrist-holding, but all was going fine.

N repeated, “My mommy’s comin’,” about three times in a row, at several points throughout our stroll. Ben sometimes replied with, “And your daddy, too.” Somehow, he hadn’t quite understood what I said.

A few neighbors stopped what they were doing — pulling weeds from flowerbeds, clipping bushes — to smile and wave at us. I’m sure we were terribly cute. Those who were within speaking distance got Ben’s introduction. “Hi, this is my friend, N,” he said.

Ben dropped his small stick in favor of a large one. N dropped his and kept that hand in mine for the rest of the walk. Later, Ben proclaimed, “It’s a nut!” and pointed at the ground in front of us. For the rest of the walk, I let him put in his pocket all the acorns I deemed ant-free.

We switched sides once, so the boys’ arms could get a little circulation going. Try having someone almost three feet taller than you hold your hand, both of you standing straight up, for an extended period, and you’ll get the feel for it.

They played real nice together after we got back, and both were much more docile than before. I got in the floor and played trains with them. The boys ran around, Ben saying, “Let’s make a race!” and “You can’t catch me.”

Hey, all you hardline “no running in the house” folks, live in Texas for a while, where it’s over 100 degrees for 10 to 15 days in a row, and you’ll gain a new appreciation for kids running in the house. Means you don’t have to sit out in nature’s sauna to watch them. Plus, we all know that the in-laws’ back yard isn’t exactly a place where you let toddlers run free.

Here was a fun exchange from the dinner table:

Ben: Thanks, Daddy.
N: Thanks, Daddy.
Me: N, you can call me Mark.
Ben: Thanks, Mark.
N: Thanks, Mark.

They made a game of that for a while, at the same time I was typing parts of this post. The computer nook in the kitchen is nice.

N’s dad got there at about 9 p.m., apologized for the meeting taking so long, and then got on his way. I decided that, even though none of what happened was anybody’s fault, and the boys were pretty simple to handle, I wouldn’t agree to a similar arrangement in the future.

Now, at home where I’m fleshing this out and finishing it up, I must say the walk was the highlight for me. I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant time with a three-year-old on one hand and a two-year-old on the other.

We left at 9:20, and on the way home I called ahead to a Chili’s restaurant that just opened a few miles short of our house. I ordered chicken fried chicken with corn on the cob and baked beans, tea with no ice (so I could easily stir in Sugar in the Raw at home). What I got was: chicken fried steak, corn on the cob, black bean soup, and no drink. The tea I should have noticed before leaving, but I was trying to keep Ben safely corraled while paying the takeout counter woman.

So, at about 10 p.m., after I read Ben his bedtime stories and put him down for the evening, I ate the meal that, for the most part, I didn’t order. The black beans, which had pico de gallo in them, were tasty, and the hunk of battered red meat was good, too.

That’s a Friday night few men would put on the drawing board, but in the end there was no harm done.

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