Stayed up too late, like 12:30, talking, plotting with Britney, then I watched some Netflix. A couple episodes about tiny homes, basically people trading on their home equity, and I started this documentary called The Wrecking Crew. On the tiny homes, I’ve come to the conclusion, I couldn’t do the super tiny ones, especially with the number of souls I swim with, but I could definitely do smaller, on a huge chunk of land.
The Wrecking Crew was about a bad ass group of studio musicians, who played on all the major Capitol Records hits, Sinatra, Beach Boys, Elvis. I love studying people like that. People that get so wrapped up in the Arts it consumes their whole lives, and changes the world. That sounds so manic, over the top, but that is what Art is about if you didn’t know.
Number 3, Coen Luxey Bucksy Boy, woke up at a hellishly bright 6. Dad forced him to cuddle on Mom’s side so he could try to steal a couple more winks. Of course this only provoked the toddler. He flopped back on Dad, conquering Mom too. Finally I conceded and we made a spot for him in the middle. There was mutual entertainment and adoration and then number 3 left to wander the empty living room, giving Mom and Dad a chance for a private smooch and rub.
Soon though he was sitting outside the door, and the cuddles had to end. Mom made breakfast, simple but satisfying scrambled eggs. Dad packed up for an adventure to a local park. The plan, capture the life the heart desires. Hike in the woods, play by the pond, playground, pop-flys, nap time. Dad success.
This initial trip was promising. Cool summer morning. Big Boulder (truck) running smooth and loud. The roll of the wheel put number 3 to slumber, but Dad fretted not, knowing that all the activity would wear him out, ensuring later nap.
We arrived, everything was teeming with life. We stopped for a small faun, and number 1 & 2 got to admire it. Number 1 (Chay) was worried it might have been lost. I explained that things in nature didn’t really get lost, that everywhere was open to them, but then I worried, that that wasn’t quite right, so I tried to abbreviate it with, mostly things in nature couldn’t get lost, and let it go at that.
I know about this short trail in the woods, which I thought would be perfect for the gang. We pulled up, roused Coen (the number things is getting old), and hopped out. Earlier I grabbed the video camera, and the phone, hoping to document the perfect day, and perhaps even mess with iMovie and see if I could make a cool video.
As we hit trail, we ran right into the bastard swarm, mosquitoes. I half hold some mystical concept that if you just ignore these type of plagues it won’t fuck with you. That’s what I read in some anthropology book about pygmies. I tried to fight through it. Swatting at the bastards, as they circled my sweet headed boys, to no avail. Stupidly, I even brought out the camera, tried to get the boys into position for a nice approaching shot, but my spirit failed.
“Look Coen’s bleeding,” Chay said. I examined. “Yeah I slapped one off of him.” A wound-less trail of blood streaked his precious neck. I surrendered, turned the gang around. “To the pond,” I said.
The gang was highly suspicious at this point, emphasizing no more trail work. I consented, struggling myself with approaching itchy eyebrows, which still haven’t left (need a shower), but the pond ended up being the highlight of the day. We threw rocks into it, saw some tiny little fish, and even a couple frogs; I love frogs.
Being the pro I am, I urged Chay and Kein to use the porta-potty. Chay obliged, Kein refused. Note to self, from now on we make number 2 always use the restroom, even if he says no, we try, dear god do we try.
So I reloaded the crew and headed for the playground. Things were going perfect, repressing the bloodsucker attack. The kids played perfectly on the playground. Even did five pull ups myself, and finally I sat down and checked the internet for news of the world. Note the spell of Babylon, it foreshadows the fall. So Kein approached, showing the universal sign of a potty break, doing the Michael Jackson, and declared he had to poop. Now as I said paradise was being enjoyed, but I realized this is not a thing to play with, so I said okay we will pack up head back to the outhouse, but then he said no and ran off.
The rest is fecal history. Accidentville. I’ll spare you the wretched detail, no I wont, Chetto-puff slime, down the leg. I discovered it as I chased them as a monster. We now know what the true horror was. Pro-Dad packed a changed of clothes, but really, fuck, there was no recovery here. I scrubbed with two dozen wipes, awkwardly ditched the soiled garments (sorry Park & Recs) in the trash can, tried to get it together, failed, surrendered.
I calmed down by the time we pulled off in the truck. Kein sat in the middle in his undies, ashamed, head down. I calmed him down. Gave the speech about how accidents happened. Rubbed his chest, told him it was okay. He played with his belly button and I realized all was forgiven. Drove a new way home, Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds was on the radio randomly, on the only old school rap station in my city.
Came home, gave Kein a bath, peace and cleanliness restored. This is adulthood, you become suspicious of peace. It can get to you if you let it. Worry. Anxiety. The rest of the day was normal. Chores, dishes, laundry, prepped dinner, which was excellent. Made burgers, bunch of spices and shredded cheese, grilled to perfection. Brauts, homemade kraut (most delicious home batch ever). Churched up beans. Mom and Dad played catch with Chay. He’s catching flyballs now. He’s really starting to like baseball too; god help us.
Last night Britney and I were talking about how having no expectations, and how that is really the best way to be. And like an analytical asshole I pointed out, that when you think about it, with no expectations you would have no clue what to do at all, that you had to start somewhere. That if you just followed every whim you would probably end up in a back alley smoking crack.
I’m pretty beat now. I was sitting there at the dinner table, finishing my braut. I ripped off a hunk and handed it to Coen. He smashed it. Getting my writing voice going, I reflected that there was no point in making a plate for any child under two and half. That it would only frustrate the savage. That the proper toddler etiquette is to just share whatever you are eating. Keep it simple. Right as the thought punctuated, Coen reached out and threw the ice cream tub of legos to the ground. We picked it up, together. I didn’t get mad at all.
Chay, five years old, claims to have made up this joke, a pun no less. He may be a genius.
How does the cow get into the water?