I had a wonderful outing with my sons yesterday. And, of course, by "wonderful" I mean horribly, gut-wrenchingly painful.
See, it all started because Andrew, my 4 year old, has been playing with my old GIJoe figures. Now, these little 3 1/2 inch figures are about 23 or so years old but they're in remarkably good shape. Their only weak spot is the rubberband that holds their torso to the lower parts of their body. Occasionally, as Andrew's flipping them and twisting them and contorting them into all sorts of positions that he describes as "really cool"--occasionally, when he's tormenting them like that, the little rubberband finally gives way and their legs fall off.
Yesterday afternoon that happened to one of his favorite people and I don't think there's ever been, in the history of the wide world, a wailing like that which rose out of our dining room. I walked in there to see what had happened and I was just in time to see Andrew sink to his knees, sobs wracking his body.
Now, because I'm not always the smartest father, I laughed. You see, it was actually kind of funny--the whole scene kind of reminded me of some sad little war movie or something. Andrew was slumped over in the dining room, the little GIJoe legs dangling uselessly from his left hand and the chest, arms and head in his right hand. He pounded the floor in despair and then shook his fists at the ceiling fan, yelling "Why? Why?" (I tell you it was just like a scene out of Saving Private Ryan--except the soldiers were smaller and there was less profanity).
Well, when I laughed, Andrew exploded in fury. He told me it wasn't funny--that Barbecue (the fallen soldier's name) was dead--and that things were never going to be fun in our house ever again. (Wow. Just because he broke a GIJoe. I hope he grows out of that or High School's really going to stink for him).
Anyway, I let him rail and mourn for a few minutes and then I told him that we could fix Barbecue. His eyes brightened as hope dawned in his cold, little gray-tomb heart. I told him to get his shoes and coat on and get in the car. We were going to Zeeland Hardware, just down the road, and we'd find a new rubberband. In 1/2 hour or so, I told him, Barbecue would be as good as new.
Excitedly, he got ready and hopped in the van. And that's when Caleb, my 7 year old son, walked in and asked if he could go with us.
"Sure," I said. (I said "sure" because I'm such a good father. I may laugh when I shouldn't--when their favorite toys lie broken on the kitchen floor--but I'm still that amazing guy who'll load his kids up in the car and take them to the hardware store to go rubberband shopping.)
So we drove to the store and we were laughing and having fun. Andrew was a new kid--knowing that Barbecue would not be dead forever, he was giddy and giggly and a little annoying. Caleb was also happy--actually a little too happy for a trip to the hardware store--but I didn't think about that at the time.
I pulled into a parking spot and shuttled them safely across the street. Together as one, we wandered across the creaking floorboards of the old hardware store until we reached the back of the building where they kept the plumbing supplies. We poked around until we found a bin filled with various rubber gaskets. Holding up the one from the little broken GIJoe, we searched until we found the perfect fit--a 5/8" black gasket for $.49.
I took two of them so we could fix another disabled GIJoe and we paid the guy and made for the front door. And then everything fell apart.
You see, as we were leaving, Caleb spotted walking sticks in a bin at the door. Now, these were carved, varnished walking sticks that looked pretty cool. Of course, they were $25 - $40 and no matter how beautifully they were varnished they were still sticks from a tree that were $25 - $40. And I'm not the kind of guy who's going to pay $25 - $40 for a stick. No matter how beautifully it's varnished.
Well, Caleb sees them and starts drooling.
"Can I have one?" The question is full of hope and excitement. He looks at me with big brown puppy-dog eyes that get larger as he clasps his little hands in front of his chest in a pleading posture.
I looked at the sticks and I looked into his eyes and said "nope. Let's go."
Well, the boy slumped over in the store. When he stands straight up he's maybe 4' or so high. In the hardware store, he was so doubled over, he looked like he was about a foot and a half tall. He dragged his knuckles on the floorboards like a chimpanzee and his whole body shook with with sobs as he staggered out of the store.
All three of us, Andrew, the monkey boy and I, crossed the street and climbed into the van. Between moans and groans and cries of torment, Caleb started trying to make me feel bad. All the way home, he belly-ached.
"It's just not fair!" He wailed. "I'll never get a walking stick! It's all I've ever wanted, my whole life and now, when I get a chance to get one . . . you say no!" (All he's EVER wanted is a walking stick? Well, we'll be saving some big money THIS Christmas. Who needs Wii games when you can get your hands on a varnished hunk of wood?)
When that didn't raise my ire, he switched tactics.
"All you ever want to do is make me sad!" It wasn't an angry accusation--or I would have pulled over and done something to make him a little sadder--it was actually a mournful, despairing cry. It was kind of funny.
That didn't provoke me to action, so he decided to pull out the big guns. As we turned into the driveway, he hollered out his last shots: "You love Andrew best! You always buy him stuff and I don't get nothing--nothing. Andrew gets all the good stuff and I don't get nothing!"
Well, at that point, I thought about pointing out the double-negatives, but that would only produce more yelling. And besides, the whole thing was so ridiculous I couldn't believe he was actually carrying on about it. After all, I had "everything" that Andrew had received in my pocket. I looked at Caleb and figured there must be some strange misunderstanding. "You remember that Andrew got rubber bands, right?"
"Yesss!" He screamed like Gollum after he lost his precious.
"You know that the rubberbands are little, right?" I still believed that there had to be some mix-up.
"Yessssss! Gollum! Gollum!"
"You know what rubberbands are, right?"
"Yessssssssssss!" He collapsed in a heap on the floor.
I pulled one of the rubberbands out of my pocket and tossed it on him. It landed on his head. He didn't even feel it hit.
"There you go . . . now you both have a rubberband."
A thud behind me caused me to turn my head. Andrew was laying on the floor. "That wubberband . . . . It was mine! It was mine . . . it was my . . . my . . . my precious!" Sobs and tears and weird choking, slobbery sounds drowned out the rest of his words.
Aahhh . . . good times, good times.
See, it all started because Andrew, my 4 year old, has been playing with my old GIJoe figures. Now, these little 3 1/2 inch figures are about 23 or so years old but they're in remarkably good shape. Their only weak spot is the rubberband that holds their torso to the lower parts of their body. Occasionally, as Andrew's flipping them and twisting them and contorting them into all sorts of positions that he describes as "really cool"--occasionally, when he's tormenting them like that, the little rubberband finally gives way and their legs fall off.
Yesterday afternoon that happened to one of his favorite people and I don't think there's ever been, in the history of the wide world, a wailing like that which rose out of our dining room. I walked in there to see what had happened and I was just in time to see Andrew sink to his knees, sobs wracking his body.
Now, because I'm not always the smartest father, I laughed. You see, it was actually kind of funny--the whole scene kind of reminded me of some sad little war movie or something. Andrew was slumped over in the dining room, the little GIJoe legs dangling uselessly from his left hand and the chest, arms and head in his right hand. He pounded the floor in despair and then shook his fists at the ceiling fan, yelling "Why? Why?" (I tell you it was just like a scene out of Saving Private Ryan--except the soldiers were smaller and there was less profanity).
Well, when I laughed, Andrew exploded in fury. He told me it wasn't funny--that Barbecue (the fallen soldier's name) was dead--and that things were never going to be fun in our house ever again. (Wow. Just because he broke a GIJoe. I hope he grows out of that or High School's really going to stink for him).
Anyway, I let him rail and mourn for a few minutes and then I told him that we could fix Barbecue. His eyes brightened as hope dawned in his cold, little gray-tomb heart. I told him to get his shoes and coat on and get in the car. We were going to Zeeland Hardware, just down the road, and we'd find a new rubberband. In 1/2 hour or so, I told him, Barbecue would be as good as new.
Excitedly, he got ready and hopped in the van. And that's when Caleb, my 7 year old son, walked in and asked if he could go with us.
"Sure," I said. (I said "sure" because I'm such a good father. I may laugh when I shouldn't--when their favorite toys lie broken on the kitchen floor--but I'm still that amazing guy who'll load his kids up in the car and take them to the hardware store to go rubberband shopping.)
So we drove to the store and we were laughing and having fun. Andrew was a new kid--knowing that Barbecue would not be dead forever, he was giddy and giggly and a little annoying. Caleb was also happy--actually a little too happy for a trip to the hardware store--but I didn't think about that at the time.
I pulled into a parking spot and shuttled them safely across the street. Together as one, we wandered across the creaking floorboards of the old hardware store until we reached the back of the building where they kept the plumbing supplies. We poked around until we found a bin filled with various rubber gaskets. Holding up the one from the little broken GIJoe, we searched until we found the perfect fit--a 5/8" black gasket for $.49.
I took two of them so we could fix another disabled GIJoe and we paid the guy and made for the front door. And then everything fell apart.
You see, as we were leaving, Caleb spotted walking sticks in a bin at the door. Now, these were carved, varnished walking sticks that looked pretty cool. Of course, they were $25 - $40 and no matter how beautifully they were varnished they were still sticks from a tree that were $25 - $40. And I'm not the kind of guy who's going to pay $25 - $40 for a stick. No matter how beautifully it's varnished.
Well, Caleb sees them and starts drooling.
"Can I have one?" The question is full of hope and excitement. He looks at me with big brown puppy-dog eyes that get larger as he clasps his little hands in front of his chest in a pleading posture.
I looked at the sticks and I looked into his eyes and said "nope. Let's go."
Well, the boy slumped over in the store. When he stands straight up he's maybe 4' or so high. In the hardware store, he was so doubled over, he looked like he was about a foot and a half tall. He dragged his knuckles on the floorboards like a chimpanzee and his whole body shook with with sobs as he staggered out of the store.
All three of us, Andrew, the monkey boy and I, crossed the street and climbed into the van. Between moans and groans and cries of torment, Caleb started trying to make me feel bad. All the way home, he belly-ached.
"It's just not fair!" He wailed. "I'll never get a walking stick! It's all I've ever wanted, my whole life and now, when I get a chance to get one . . . you say no!" (All he's EVER wanted is a walking stick? Well, we'll be saving some big money THIS Christmas. Who needs Wii games when you can get your hands on a varnished hunk of wood?)
When that didn't raise my ire, he switched tactics.
"All you ever want to do is make me sad!" It wasn't an angry accusation--or I would have pulled over and done something to make him a little sadder--it was actually a mournful, despairing cry. It was kind of funny.
That didn't provoke me to action, so he decided to pull out the big guns. As we turned into the driveway, he hollered out his last shots: "You love Andrew best! You always buy him stuff and I don't get nothing--nothing. Andrew gets all the good stuff and I don't get nothing!"
Well, at that point, I thought about pointing out the double-negatives, but that would only produce more yelling. And besides, the whole thing was so ridiculous I couldn't believe he was actually carrying on about it. After all, I had "everything" that Andrew had received in my pocket. I looked at Caleb and figured there must be some strange misunderstanding. "You remember that Andrew got rubber bands, right?"
"Yesss!" He screamed like Gollum after he lost his precious.
"You know that the rubberbands are little, right?" I still believed that there had to be some mix-up.
"Yessssss! Gollum! Gollum!"
"You know what rubberbands are, right?"
"Yessssssssssss!" He collapsed in a heap on the floor.
I pulled one of the rubberbands out of my pocket and tossed it on him. It landed on his head. He didn't even feel it hit.
"There you go . . . now you both have a rubberband."
A thud behind me caused me to turn my head. Andrew was laying on the floor. "That wubberband . . . . It was mine! It was mine . . . it was my . . . my . . . my precious!" Sobs and tears and weird choking, slobbery sounds drowned out the rest of his words.
Aahhh . . . good times, good times.
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