back to reality 5 25 10
Wednesday, May 26, 2010 at 08:08AM I had written on my blog about how much Sarah and I dote on the boys. I think reality demands a rebuttal. The doting remains, at least scared and quiet in confused corners, as we wonder what in the hell has possessed Quin. He's good, right, most of the time. He's just in to doing things himself. This can add some time to the morning routine and bedtime has been stretched a little. As a matter of fact we often don't know where he's sleeping.
He can open doors. Much of the evening is like a horror movie where I can hear little feet and doors slamming shut, I just don't know where the hell he is. He's usually stripped out of his PJs, too. Roaming around the house naked was kind of my thing, but at least now you have half a chance that the bare ass Ewy you find won't be me.
He does well dressing, and there's nothing cuter than his emerging from his room, as proud as can be, with his pants on inside out and his shirt on backwards. It's just hard to watch. It's ten times worse than seeing someone miss an obvious Solitaire move. Here's your son tangled in his Thomas shirt like a deer and your told to go away. He even demands we don't look at him. He's not even three and talking like Tyra.
Tonight was another night at the park. Otto crawled around in the grass and Q showed his prowess on the b-ball court. It's amazing how he keeps bringing his game to the ten-foot baskets even after an evening of shooting six to seven feet short. Often the basketball turns to a more satisfying soccer-style kicking contest, and eventually we're eating imaginary sandwiches under a tree.
I had to apprehend a little girl who stuffed Q's ball up her shirt and tried to make off with it. She might have been about ten. This is Englewood, so I didn't think much about her looking pregnant, until I saw the bumpy outline of Quin's spiky ball. I don't know what kind of kid's toy is covered in rubber spikes, but Q loves it. We have a whole collection of spiky balls. Or at least we did. The girl was close to the truck. Her parents, the kind of people who wear "Big Dog" clothing and have fat confused with a leadership quality, were oblivious.
With Quin in one swing with his mom and Otto with me in another, I shouted across the playground, "Hey, is that a blue, spiky ball?" She said, 'nope' and adjusted her smuggler's belly.
I watched a little longer and almost let it go. I couldn't. Both of the boys were engaged now and I had to make a stand. I declared that it was indeed a blue spiky ball.
She squeezed it from her shirt and ran off. Boom! Victory. I wish I didn't feel so empowered. At that moment, however, I told myself a new era begins here. I wouldn't take any crap from anybody.
Of course it's hard to criticize white trash when thirty minutes later your son's naked and running through the sprinkler on the front lawn. A few cars slowed to admire the summer scene, and I wasn't as bothered as I thought I'd be. I realized that I don't mind being white and trashy around people who aren't. As a matter of fact there's something about decent people in fleece vests that make me want to spit. But when I'm around white and trashy people I want to run to the dentist and reward myself with some North Face.
It's something I've got to work on, especially since my wife is the furthest thing from white trash. She might still have hope for me--well, actually no. But be damned if her boys are going to cave to what can be a most blissful state. I mean imagine wearing tight, stone-washed jeans and not caring what people think of your howling wolf t-shirt? I'll help them be strong, I'll share with them NPR. And I'll make sure they don't pee on the lawn, at least not any more after tonight.
