Boys get hurt. We do stupid things to ourselves, either as a result of not thinking or in spite of it. Bruises are beautiful, and scrapes are simply failed attempts at the ultimate in male expression: the open, oozing wound.
For the most part, Ian keeps himself in bruises. His creativity hasn’t yet reached the level of intentional self destruction, and his injuries are mainly due more to clumbsiness than anything else. Mainly.
Two weeks ago, Ian was running across a courtyard. He tripped, and tried to catch himself with his face. Considering that the ground is flat, and his nose anything but, I still don’t know how he managed to scrape both sides, his upper lip, and a nostril.
Last weekend, he tried to get out of the bathtub by himself. He slipped, and didn’t try to catch himself with anything. I wasn’t a witness to this, I simply saw the result: my son with a fat, split lip, Ian’s bathtowel and Kelly both covered in blood. Now that’s an injury a guy can be proud of. He even got a nasty, slimy, yellowish scab. Neat.
This past Monday, Ian’s forehead had some sort of altercation with the corner of Grandpa’s desk. Again, I wasn’t there, but it resulted in a very impressive goose-egg above Ian’s left eye.
Of course, this is all relatively harmless…so to speak. Ian’s a boy, and these things happen. But does everyone know this?
I started to get a little paranoid after the Bathtub Incident. It happened on a Saturday evening, and the next morning Ian would be going to nursery and Sunday school. These activities are both managed by people trained in childcare, who are charged with protecting the well-being of children.
My unsettling thought was this: when do the wages of an exuberant childhood start to resemble something more sinister? This thought would normally never have crossed my mind if not for Ian’s recent rash of specactular injuries.
Last night, Ian asked me to make tea. Apparently I took my own sweet time, because I soon found him on his toes, stretching his hand toward our electric kettle. Thankfully it was turned off (I’d already made the tea, thank you very much), but let me just say that even guys don’t appreciate the ruddy sheen of a third-degree burn. What would people have thought if Ian showed up to Sunday school with a handfull of begauzed fingers?
I’m fairly sure that my fears are unfounded. If anyone should recognize a boy’s propensity for injury, it’s certainly someone who regularly takes care of children. Just to be safe, let me say that my son is inherently clumbsy, and that it’s very hard to catch the arm of a plummeting toddler when it’s covered in soap.
Anyone who’s a fan of Star Trek: The Next Generation knows that when Guinan makes an appearance, the timeline of the universe is about to do the truffle shuffle. (For those who don’t understand the reference, this is the feeling you get when Bob Saget walks on stage.)
As much as I like Star Trek, I never would’ve believed that altering time was possible. Fatherhood, it seems, is stranger than fiction; my son is a walking time warp.
I suppose I should’ve known something was wrong when Ian was first born, and time lost all meaning. My life was no longer measured in minutes and hours, but in diapers and feedings, peppered with work and sleep. Though, to be fair, Kelly had more diapers, less sleep, and played the starring role in all the feedings.
Time seemed to…stretch, to drag. I once visited Ireland, and rented a stick-shift. I had never driven in another country, on the opposite side of the road, and I hadn’t touched a manual since high school. By, I suspect, some sort of mental self-defense mechanism, I don’t remember the details of those first 30 minutes. Like a mystic on a bed of nails, or a collage of images that resolve into a picture of Andy Warhol, I’m instead left with the overall impact of that experience.
For the first year, Ian’s time bubble was involuntary. I mean, it’s not as though he could stop being hungry; and though I remember thinking that some diapers seemed to be unnesessarily full, I really don’t think Ian had that much control over his digestive processes.
And then he started walking.
This past spring, we took Ian to a state park. The third state park of the weekend, to be precise. As much as we had enjoyed the weekend, Kelly and I were anxious to get home; and Ian’s diaper – again with the diapers – needed to be changed. In other words, we were in a big, smelly hurry.
The path to the parking lot was long, and Ian had just entered the stage when he wanted to walk by himself. The moment his shoes touched the pavement, I swear I heard Bob Saget giggling from behind a tree.
Ian walked a foot, and stopped to look at a tree. Another foot, another stop to watch the stream. A step, a bird. Two feet, stick. Rock, leaf, butterfly, butterfly, butterfly, leaf, tree, airplane, stick. Three hours later, I could almost see the car.
Sometimes we’re genuinely in a rush, and these little time bubbles can be a little very frustrating. I mean, sometimes Ian will just stop for no particular reason. No tree, no squirrel, no crack in the wall. He’ll just stop for a while, and then move on. I’ll look at my watch, and 5 minutes will have passed.
Of course, you see where I’m going with this. It’s a lesson everyone knows, and we’re all surprised when we have to learn it again. Ian’s good with the details. He doesn’t care about the bigger picture, the forest, or the grand scheme of things. He couldn’t care less about Andy Warhol. He just wants you to notice the shiny, silver speck moving through the sky.
So maybe I’m the one traveling through time. Maybe Ian’s not so much taking his time, as I’m stealing it.
Here’s to you, son. Take all the time you need.
