fatherhood

Trevvy On The Verge

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Our youngest turned five on Sunday. Hard to believe he’s headed to kindergarten in the fall. In lieu of photos, here are a few written snapshots from the weekend.

* * * * *

Dozens of boisterous children are shouting, giggling, scrambling over the intricate jungle gym playground at the campground where our church group was staying. Above the din, a lone low growl rises to a roar. The small knot of grownups I’m standing in turns to stare as Trevor mounts the tallest tower. He throws his head back, pounds his chest, and roars at the trees and the sky and no one in particular.

* * * * *

It’s bed time, and Trevor and I go into a single bathroom to brush and get ready for bed. Trevor has to pee, and there is no divider between the sink and the stool.

“Dad,” he says, his voice dramatic, “DON’T … LOOK … to the SIDE!”

I smile and shake my head. “Alright, little man,” I say. “But we’re both guys here, so it’s not that big of a deal.”

He thinks a second, then says, “OK, Dad — LOOK … to the SIDE!”

I glance to the left. Trevvy is grinning up at me, peeing with remarkable accuracy as he does so.

“See?” he says. “That’s why you’re not supposed to look to the side!”

* * * * *

On the way home from the camp on Sunday afternoon, we’re asking Trevor what he would like for his birthday dinner. The menu: stringy spaghetti noodles (you know, the ones that look like lines), grapes and spinach (for the people who don’t want grapes), and garlic bread.* For dessert: brownies with white frosting and red and blue sprinkles.

* * * * *

We went to Mass after spaghetti and garlic bread and before brownies and presents. It’s been a busy weekend, and Trevvy falls asleep in minutes. He’s our preschooler on the verge, stretched full length on the hard wooden pew, peacefully sucking his thumb …

* * * * *

* Trevor genuinely likes fresh spinach, and eats it as finger food, leaf by leaf.

Gabe’s Twisted Sense of Humor

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

We’re at Bren’s baseball game, with our backs to the high-school girls’ softball team. Behind us: PING!, then “Heads up!” A fluorescent yellow softball rockets over the backstop behind us, over our heads, and slams into the fence around the ball field in front of us.

“Wow!” I say.

“They shouldn’t say, ‘Heads up,'” says Gabe, “because if you stick your head up …” — and he extends his neck as high as it will go — “… you have a better chance of getting hit by the ball.”

I smile and nod. “Maybe they should say, ‘Duck and cover!'” I suggest.

“Yeah,” says Gabe, “and then it’s like you grab a little kid to duck under!” … and he laughs and laughs.

Wish Flowers

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We were walking the sidewalk along Selby Avenue toward Dark Raven Studios, where the older kids practice tai chi. Here and there, a tree grew along the walk, skirted in weeds and dust. In the center of the street a crow pecked crumbs from discarded cellophane, hopping first to one side, then to the other, as the occasional car passed.

I snuffed a breath through my stuffy nose and grumbled inarticulately. Only the crow seemed to hear, and flapped to a nearby lamppost.

Then Trevor said, “I know why there are so many wish flowers today.”

Wish flowers? I thought. I looked at our youngest. He was gazing at a clump of ragged dandelions, which had shed their jaunty yellow caps to bare their graying heads to the breeze

“There are lots of wish flower because last week there were lots of dandelions!” he said, pointing to the balding stems.

Today a weed; tomorrow a wish. So much I’ve forgotten about wonder. So much to learn.

Trevor’s Ambitions

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We spoke to Trevor last night about his ambitions — we had friends over, and they were asking the kids what they aspire to be when they grow up. Trevor said he wants to be an “army man, a police officer, a cowboy,” or (and here he smiled a little, shy smile, like he was showing us a glimpse of his soul) a “hobo swordsman.”

We questioned him further. Most questions were met with a small, inscrutable smile. He was infinitely patient with us. Apparently, if you grasp “hobo” and grasp “swordsman,” you’ve pretty much grokked his life plan. He likes trains, likes blades, and true to the hobo spirit, appears little concerned with a roof, or food, or money.

The world doesn’t have enough — or perhaps any! — hobo swordsmen, don’t you think? A story is emerging: Zatoichi-meets-Kwai Chang Caine-meets-The Twilight Samurai: a vagabond dressed in threadbare clothes, with only a sword to his name, riding the rails, righting the wrongs …

I already have the cover of the graphic novel sketched in my mind. I can write; who can draw?

If you haven’t seen The Twilight Samurai, check it out. One of my favorites. More heart and fewer arteries than typical samurai movies.

Trevvy Figures It Out

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Our youngest, Trevor, spent most of his Friday at the home of a friend who is pregnant. Exactly how he knew she was pregnant, I’m not sure, but apparently partway through the day he approached her, sized up her belly, and said, “You got a baby in there.”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

He looked at her belly again. “Sometimes if people eat a lot they look like that, too,” he said.

She laughed. “Yes, I guess they do.”

He hesitated a moment, then said, “Maybe that’s how you get a baby in there!”