Lasagna, left-over or otherwise, is a soothing balm unto my soul. It is comforting, restorative, and cheesy. It was dinner tonight, with warm, crusty, garlic bread. I was a happy man, and made it known.
‘Daddy,’ Ian said, ‘you’ve got a whole lasagna thing goin’ on in your life.’
The prayer had been a last-minute decision. As Ian sipped his hot chocolate and eyed the script sitting on the kitchen table, we discussed the speaking order: Ian, Mommy, Daddy, Grammie, Great-Grandpa. Ian’s line was, ‘Jesus is coming, shout for joy!’
Earlier that week, our family had been asked to light the advent candles on Sunday morning. Four generations together, in front of the congregation: Kelly’s grandparents, her parents, us, and Ian. The script was short and simple, and with so many people around the candles there was a good chance that I wouldn’t have to say anything. When my father-in-law forwarded the script, I knew Ian had to read the prayer.
He needed coaxing. There was a time when Ian had no pride, no shame, and no fear. Kelly’s mother teaches a high school improv class, and, before each performance, Ian used to rush to the stage and dance to DJ Grandpa’s prelude: Peanut-Butter Jelly Time, Numa Numa, the Muppet Show theme. But someone slipped him an apple, and now he hides in the back of the theater with the rest of us fig-leafers. I knew a prayer, more so than ever in front of God and everyone, was a lot to ask.
We didn’t want to force him, and wouldn’t, so we tried to lay the ground work. Monday: ‘Here, read this.’ Tuesday: ‘Can you try again? Good!’ Wednesday: ‘No, you don’t have to. But it would be very special.’ Thursday: ‘No one will be watching. Everyone will have their eyes closed.’ Friday: ‘That’s okay, kiddo. You don’t have to.’
In the end, Ian agreed to read the first sentence, with gusto. ‘Jesus is coming, shout for joy!’ Enthusiastic and unabashed joy, which is a lot to ask for seven o’clock on a Sunday morning.
Ian wiped his mouth and took a bite of his cereal bar. I took his jacket from his shoulders and hung it on the back of a chair, far from gravity and sticky fingers. ‘Daddy,’ he said softly, to my back, ‘I don’t want to read this.’ Nertz. Well, it’d been a good try, and even the thought had been an important step.
‘That’s okay, buddy. You don’t ha…’
‘I want to read the prayer.’
‘…ve to. Wait. What? Really? You’ll read the prayer?’
And he smiled into his chest. ‘Yes.’
We stood in a semi-circle around the candles, smartly dressed, which is rare for me and my son. Later, a friend told me he didn’t understand why I was wearing a coat and tie until he saw my name in the bulletin. Ian was wearing a suit, sweater, and tie that didn’t match the sweater. All three buttons on his jacket were fastened, because that’s the way he liked them.
The microphone passed from Kelly to me to my mother-in-law, and my unsteady hands lit the candles of hope, love, and joy. My eyes watched Ian for signs of flight as Great-Grandpa finished the reading from Luke 2. Then the microphone was at Ian’s lips.
We had backup plans. Grandpa was waiting on the side, hand on his ear-piece, waiting for the ‘go’ signal from the surveillance team in the balcony. If needed, he would swoop and pray.
Ian didn’t say anything. He took a breath, stopped, and looked at me with…not panic. Not fear. But there were questions. I prompted into his ear, ‘Go ahead, honey. “Dear God…”‘ He shook his head. ‘You can do it, kiddo. It’s okay.’ I felt Grandpa drawing closer.
Ian frowned and waved me down. He whispered fiercely into my ear, ‘Daddy, no one’s closing their eyes!’
I mentally kicked myself, hard, and leaned toward the microphone. ‘Let us pray.’ And he did.
‘Dear God, give us joy in our hearts now and forever. Help us to tell other people about this joy, too. Amen.’
At dinner last night, in exchange for forcing him to eat barbecue chicken instead of (yet another) grilled cheese, I allowed Ian to choose any drink he wanted from the dispenser. Soda is usually reserved for vacations or special occasions, so this was a rare treat.
In retrospect, allowing a child with decision-making issues and a limited history of soda consumption to select from an array of colorful, enamel-eroding beverages may have been a little cruel.
He clutched the school-bus yellow cup to his chest, and bounced from the tips of one toe to the other: Charlie Bucket with a shiny pound. I could see his lips moving, ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…’ Just before his head popped, Ian rushed to the machine and choked, hastily choosing the Whammy of sody water: Caffeine-Free Diet Coke.
Oooh, sorry! But thanks for playing!
I leave work early on Fridays during the summer. Yesterday Ian and I grabbed a quick lunch, took the train downtown, and visted the City Museum. For five hours.
I ruminated on the way home, and realized several things:
Ian’s always wanted a younger brother. Unless God, in his infinite humor, decides otherwise, it ain’t gonna happen. But we have a two-year-old godson, Timothy, who’s filling the role quite nicely.
We spent last week in Madeira Beach with friends and our godson, sharing a beach-front condo and sixteen-hour drive. Ian and Timothy spent the trip no more than six inches apart. They sat next to each other in the car, played together on the beach and in the bath, and shared a room.
When traveling with kids, you must always cater to the lowest common denominator. The difference, with this trip, was that Ian had always been that denominator. His feeding times, his nap schedule, his height restriction. In Madeira Beach, Timothy set the bar.
Ian was infinitely patient. When I use the word ‘infinite’, I’m being quite literal. When it came to Timothy, there was no end to Ian’s grace and good will. He shared his best toys, his favorite foods, his parents’ attention. During a rainy-day trip to the aquarium, Ian took Timothy by the hand and led him gently through the exhibits, pointing, explaining, and teaching.
On the morning of the penultimate day, Ian woke late. Timothy had woken an hour earlier. Ian stumbled from his room, and shuffled, frowning, to the bathroom. He walked back without having said a word. I followed.
He’d returned to bed, buried under the covers. I closed the door, lifted the blanket, and crawled next to Ian. He snuggled into my arm.
‘How’re you?’
‘Okay.’
‘Just tired?’
‘Yeah.’
We lay still, the sounds of Elmo drifting from the living room.
‘Did you need a break from Timothy?’
‘…Yeah.’
‘It’s hard work, isn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘Being a big brother.’
‘Yeah.’
‘It takes a lot of work, and a lot of patience. Kinda like being a daddy. I’m very proud of you. You’ve done a wonderful job taking care of Timothy. You’ve been very good to him.’
He shifted. ‘Daddy?’
‘Yeah, kiddo?’
‘Don’t you know how I wanted a little brother?’
‘Yep.’
‘I don’t need one anymore, because I got my wish. God gave me a brother, huh?’
‘He sure did.’ He nodded. ‘Do you want to get up now?’
‘…No.’
So we didn’t.
Reasons why my son is awesome:
37. He named his stuffed triceratops ‘Rhino’.
This weekend, begoggled and spluttering in the pool, Ian shouted, ‘Look out! It’s a horrendous storm!’
I dragged him from the water, found a naughty step, and explained that ‘life around here’s gonna get pretty rough if you don’t start getting your indefinite articles straight’.
He also went to bed early, without dessert.
Except that I’ve done this. Look, once you let them out of the stroller, they won’t go back!
I’m not a joiner, by nature. I was a Boy Scout, briefly, when I was younger, but ditched the group when I learned that Camp Fire had girls. Even then, the depth of my membership extended only as far as summer camp. Apart from church choir and a library card, I just don’t belong.
Yet when a five-year-old boy presents you with a membership card for the ‘Woke Toke’ club, you don’t really have a choice in the matter.
This card, hand-printed and laminated in scotch-tape, was accompanied by an equally detailed, palm-sized walkie-talkie, the companion of which was nestled in Ian’s shirt pocket. All of this, of course, was a prerequisite for membership in the ‘Hunten Club’.
Last month, feeling nostalgic for the wasted hours of my childhood, I purchased a used copy of Final Fantasy XII. This is one of a continuing series of role-playing games which began with the original NES; the last I played was III, due in large part to marriage and rediscovery of natural light.
Final Fantasy XII features ‘Hunts’, whereby your party is hired to dispatch an expanding list of troublesome and implausible beasts for fun and profit. There is no dental plan, but you make your own hours.
Ian was hooked with our first hunt: the Rogue Tomato, which seems to be a hybrid of a tomato, rag-doll, and Garden Weasel. Our conquests soon included a Thextra, Rocktoise, and a Croakadile.
Hence the ‘Hunten Club’. Ian presented me with another membership card and a sword; he was carrying a bow. He’d drawn a menu of creatures from which to choose, from slimy blobs to fish with over-sized tongues. The walkie-talkies allowed us to separate for a more efficient search, and to call for help if absolutely necessary.
Our targets were elusive, so we regrouped at the Lego workshop to design a monster-detector:
We’re not accepting clients just yet, but we do have a waiting list.
‘Daddy, can you take this, please,’ because, I thought, he was done with the cup of tea, and wanted me to set it on the end-table. ‘It’s still too hot.’
‘Just keep it. It’ll cool down.’
‘No,’ as he slides from the couch, walks around me, and carefully places his cup on the table. ‘I don’t like to hold things.
