Dad with a co-pilot

A while ago I wrote about the joy (or not) of flying solo. One of the problems of flying solo, of course, is that it is very difficult for a single person to be responsible for absolutely everything. And so, tasks for which I could not be responsible were often outsourced to others. For their part in filling in where I could not, I remain eternally grateful, to the ground crew - they know who they are....

And that could have been the situation today.

But, through a series of events and adventures, this dad who has been used to flying solo for a number of years, acquired a co-pilot! So now I not only get to hand over responsibility for flying on occasions, but perhaps one of the more interesting twists of fate, I am also responsible for an increased size of cargo.

My co-pilot is well experienced in flying solo. She has been at it for a number of years with a cargo very similar in size and shape to my own. In fact, it was this commonality in size, shape and age of the cargo that actually got us communicating with one another. The way in which we established contact and how and why we decided to fly in tandem, and then join forces is a story that falls beyond the scope of this blog, (but it will make for fascinating reading one day).

What I can say is that my co-pilot's style of flying is very different to mine. She often takes the scenic route, she is not as brusque with the ground crew, and she tends to be more gentle with the cargo. All characteristics that I think balance out my tendency to file short and direct flight plans.

So will the blog change? Definitely. There are now at least two more characters to report on. That in itself creates at least eight more potential interactions to report on (although two of those also fall beyond the scope of this blog). So hopefully the blog will become deeper and richer (and possibly less frequent, if that is possible). But will the focus of the blog change? Definitely not. It will remain a dad's perspective of raising his sons, while dealing with the good, the bad, the gross and pleasant. The only difference might be my co-pilot might want to read some of the entries before they get posted.

But I am pretty sure we can live with that ...

Dad at Full Speed

When does life slow down? When does anyone learn to appreciate where they are now, what they have now, who they are now?

These highly philosophical questions (along with the other more mundane questions like, “have I forgotten anything at the venue? Did everyone who was supposed to be there arrive? Was I supposed to give some soul a lift home?”) raced through my mind in the aftermath of the birthday party. The impetus for this introspection?

My “Now-I-Am-Eight-I-Am-Nearly-Nine” year old.

The birthday party in question had been in design phase for at least six months. As with any thoroughly planned enterprise, it had changed goals, directions, venue, cost, size, and theme a few times. These changes were sometimes in direct response to external stimuli such as someone else’s party, a new toy, a new craze, a varied interest, a passing attraction. Sometimes the changes (and the guest list) were simply as a result of mood. As any experienced Dad will know, interest was expressed in each change, knowing that on the day, the only likely constant would be the central character. The only thing that had not changed was the overarching purpose behind the occasion: I-Am-Eight!

The car was packed, the venue and debris of the occasion behind us, we were exhausted and ecstatic (for different reasons; him because of a sugar high, me because no-one broke any bones) and on our way home. The topic of conversation was what a great time it was and the mention of the antics of the guests.

Then...

From nowhere...

“When I turn nine I think I will....”

Now this was not the exclamation of an unappreciative brat, (although that variation of the character in question is not unknown). This was an appreciation of the event to the extent that it could be improved on and the success repeated.

In hindsight, I was too quick to point out that this was a year away and that there were many things to appreciate with being eight. I got to thinking. How many times when I achieve a goal or an objective, do I take time to stop, appreciate and be thankful before I move on? How many times do I almost negligibly acknowledge where I am before reaching for the next rung on the ladder, the next fruit. Mmmm. Maybe not as often as I try to convince my eight year old to do.

So maybe next time I am in a position of completion, of fulfilment, of achievement, I should stop and say “Wow, that was great!” and not simply move on to “What’s next?”

Who says that Dad’s are beyond learning?

Dad – to the power of five.

Holidays! Ah, just the thought conjures up images of laid-backness, tall, cold drinks, sunny skies, late breakfasts, and requests of “What can we do now, Dad?” Needless to say some of these images are in sharp contrast to one another.

Anyone with a seven year old will know that the attention span, is less than the lifespan of a miniature cupcake at an Over Eaters Anonymous meeting. So much so that even after we have painted the dinosaur, (and cleaned the couch afterwards), assembled the jigsaw puzzle, built and flown (and crashed) the aeroplane, flown and broken the UFO (due to an over-exuberant Dad), searched for Wally across the globe, relearned the rules of Old Maid, Snap, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders and improvised many more rules to relieve the tedium, that even Dads sometimes run out of defences to that black hole of attention – “What can we do now, Dad?”

That is where Dad – to the power of five comes in.

In some circles they might be known as uncles. In my (limited) extended family they are friends and family of friends that saved my patience on numerous occasions. Five (and at times more) friends, with no children of their own (or none that would be seen dead in the pool with them!) ambled to my rescue like superheroes (without the tight underpants, masks and capes – that would just have been weird).

Now I don’t like to be seen as exploitative. I prefer to see a fair exchange of value. So... the superhero (or heroes) gets the undivided attention and adoration of a seven year old who ascribes god-like status on anyone who can braai, swim, piggy back, dive, ride, play rugby, build lego universes and shoot bionicles (from behind tomato sauce bottles, preferably in the middle of a meal) all without the need or compulsion to look to the longer term consequences, or worry about baths, medicine, discipline, manners, ....

The seven year old gets adventures beyond the scope of his imagination, fuelled by the exploits of one who has been there (and sometimes wishes he could go back). He gets exposure to skills and thoughts and experiences that one Dad alone could not provide. And he laps it up....

And me? I get to lie back on the couch and ........

Seems like a fair exchange of value to me.

Ties, Time and Tension

It had been a late night. It meant that the morning was not greeted with bright eyes and bushy tails. The initial adrenalin rush spurred by the leap out of bed, when I realise that I was THAT late, is exhausted by the time I reach the bedroom door. What to do in situations like this – PANIC! YELL!

“Hey! Out of bed! Breakfast!” The poor boy levitates out of his bunk bed by the volume of the wakeup call alone. He hits the ground half way to the dining room and sits at the table as a bowl of coco pops shoots past. “Eat! Dress! I am in the shower!”

One quick shower routine later added a small component of humanness. Wishing I had one of those machines from Wallace and Grommit, I glance in to see a small body contorting into various pieces of clothes, while I proceed to pull on items of apparel as they fell from the cupboard. He runs to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

FREEZE!

“What are you wearing?” I ask in a slow motion voice to cover the exasperation that was about to erupt.

“PT clothes” he replies confidently.

“PT is only tomorrow! CHANGE!”

The small body rushed into the bedroom again, tracksuit flying in one direction, takkies in another. I rush to the kitchen to get lunch and cold drink ready.

“I need help with my tie”

I tie the modern day instrument of torture with both hands, while wishing that I were flexible enough to make a peanut nut butter sandwich with my feet. “People paint portraits with their feet and mouths, why not?” I wonder, as hysteria begins to set in...

“Tighten it and fasten your collar!” I order. “Grab your blazer! Let’s go”

The small green and yellow striped missile careers down the passage way on the way to the car.

“STOP! What on earth have you done?”

The lapels of the blazer are tucked up under the jersey in a fashion that would stun an origami master. But this is not important, because your attention is immediately distracted by the fashion statement made by the tie. It has promoted itself to outerwear and is sitting on top of the collar. I grab a chair to sit at eye level to give full attention to the matter at hand. Dads can rarely concentrate on more than one thing at once.

I lift the tie and realise the battle is lost...

One wing of the collar is poking into his cheek while the other points towards the belly button. The shirt is fastened but is two buttons out of sync.

The hysteria breaks. I burst out laughing and kiss his forehead. We take a leisurely stroll to the car with the tie around his shoulder.

Some battles are just not worth fighting...

Experience and Excalibur

Those of you out there who know me know that my tendency towards parenting is a very practised nonchalant attitude. Those of you out there who know me well will know that this tendency is simply a veneer on a deeper, chaotic, far more muddled and confused attempt at parenting. This is something that I probably share with the majority of parents in this world -- other than those of you who are perfect of course.

I suspect that all parents out there are familiar with some variant of practised nonchalance. The one that springs to mind is, when your child is in the middle of some form of activity that is likely to result in tears rather than in laughter, and you've warned them at least four times, and they've shrugged off this warning with the indifference that only seven years of experience can bring. My standard response is, "When you cut off your leg, don't bleed on the carpet."

This week saw one of those type of events. Home from school, eaten lunch, done the homework, time to play. Outside with dog and sticks. Long sticks. Sticks that became swords and then converted into light sabres which were occasionally used as battering rams.

At some point in time the safety catch on one of the sticks failed (not sure if it was in sabre mode or long sword more). It viciously attacked my little boy, breaking the skin and resulting in a very dramatic and impressive amount of blood. There was no crying out or sobbing. No yelling for help. Instead a rather sombre and subdued soul made his way into the house, blood streaming from the bridge of his nose, (but not onto the carpet!). A quick wipe with a cold facecloth and a cuddle and all that was left was a cut, proudly borne.

That was the end of the sword play for the day. Living and learning through experience hurts.

My learning involved seeing how close the injury was to the eye. I wanted to cover him in cotton wool and lock him away from the world, saving him from further real and potential injury. But I know I can’t do that. Scrapes and falls and tears and blood are all part of life and learning. It is all experience, but that does not mean it doesn’t hurt (and scare) Dads too.

The fourth law of attraction

I have uncovered one of the forgotten forces in the universe. For those of us out there who are not physicists, there are three main forces that govern everything in the universe – gravity, electromagnetic force and nuclear force. All of these are forces of attraction hold the universe together. There are also ratios of protons to neutrons, but let’s not worry about that now... The most important thing about these forces is that they are ALWAYS there. You cannot do anything about them. They exist. It is a fact of nature. Live with it.

I am proud to say that I have uncovered a fourth major force of attraction. While I am sure it is not unique in my own household, I uncovered it one morning last week. It has been in existence since small boys began, but like all things it took some time until it was “discovered”. In a fashion similar to Isaac Newton and his episode with the apple, there I was making coffee one morning in the kitchen, minding my own business.

Isaac, I am sure was quite happy sitting un der the tree, contemplating what he was going to have for lunch, or replaying last night’s intellectual discussion at the pub down the road, or even better, thinking of nothing. I was in a similar state of mind – thinking of nothing – after all I had just climbed out of bed. Who thinks of anything in the first thirty minutes of morning activity? Most of my actions are automatic.

Waiting for the water to boil, one morning last week, my glorious nothingness of thought was cruelly shattered. A vuvuzela trumpeted through the house, announcing the beginning of another fun-filled, action-packed, never-ending, ever-moving, always-noisy, day for my son.

It was then, in that split second of shattered peace, that I had my epiphany.

No matter where you put them, how you isolate them, how sternly you warn them, what action you threaten, what rewards you promise, six year (I am nearly seven) year olds will never, ever – in fact cannot - be quiet. At all times they will have something somewhere that they will be able to coach, encourage or force to make a noise.

And it dawned on me – this is the fourth universal force. Boys and noise. Irresistible attraction. It exists. It is a fact of nature. Live with it.

Laughing (and learning) over Spilt Milk

You know that plaintive cry? The one that you hear and you just know things are amiss? The one that you hear and you wonder - "Should I pretend to be asleep?" "Should I ignore that?"

I heard it this weekend.

"Daaaaaad!" It was not loud. It was not a scream. It was more like a question. In fact, it would be better expressed as "Daaaad?!" To make matter slightly more interesting, it was coming from the garage, and we were on our way out.

I mentally scrolled through the Rolodex of answers, "Yes?" "What?" "What have you done?" "Come here!" "Can I help?"

None of them seemed to fit the moment and I was on my way to the garage anyway.

I sneaked my head around the corner. There, valiantly stopping the garage from being carried away in a flood of UHT milk, stood my boy. With feet firmly planted, he braced against the tide of white fury, pressing his hands up against the six pack. A modern day equivalent of the Dutch hero who placed his finger in a dyke. With one minor difference. The Dutch hero was an innocent passer by who had the courage to place himself in between the flood and the rest of Holland. My boy was the instigator.

"Yes?" I asked.

"Uuuh. The milk has broken." The little voice belied his bravery with a small quiver.

"I see. Any idea how it broke?"

"Uuuuh...."

"Perhaps a stick got stuck in the box?" I offered helpfully, seeing the offending weapon lying on the floor, its sharpened point glistening with guilt

"Uuuuh...."

"What should we do?" I asked. (Was it cruel to stand apart from the epicentre of the event, and observe? Even though my direct intervention was called for? Dunno. But it was more fun, this way!) I was clearly mentally gearing up for a "teachable moment".

"Fix it, Dad"

And my resolve melted. Dads can fix anything. Even broken milk.

P.S. Sticks are no longer brought into the house. This was always the rule, but the impact has now been seen. Nothing like a little bit of experience to just tap that lesson into place.