There’s awkwardness and uncertainty that comes with growing up. You feel clumsy, uncoordinated, anxiety ridden and sometimes ugly (depending on your style preferences). And in a strange dichotomy of existence, this happens while we are children, and it reappears once we grow into adulthood. I guess there’s really no beginning or end to the tumultuous path of growth. It’s just buried at times while we’re preoccupied with other aspects of life.

And while it would be easy to blame other factors on this struggle to grow, we’re at the helm of the ship navigating through these stormy times. Even as a child, we’re on the journey. It just isn’t as cerebral as it is now. Take Son #2 for example. Here’s a kid that can be purely angelic depending on how the wind blows through his hair. And on other days, being in the same room as him while he melts down like Chernobyl can be one of the most disturbing moments of your life with no terminal ending in sight.

And while painful to be a part of, especially when other witnesses in the room think your child must have some sort of flaming rod up his ass, imagine for a moment that you’re short of three years old. You can’t effectively communicate these new volatile feelings because you know a limited set of vocabulary and are now becoming aware of your existence and the inadequacy of your speech.

Of course you would be pissed the hell off too. But that doesn’t make it any more palatable as a parent.

Son #2 and I don’t spend even close to the same amount of time together as Son #1 and I did at this age. Could be the context of life, could be the fact that I’m jaded by the horror stories I’ve heard about his behavior and attitude from wife. She’s had the unique and enjoyable ‘opportunity’ to be at ground zero with Son #2 in some of his most colorful of dispositions. So the horrors of Son #2 melt downs have become somewhat legendary. And with legend comes self fulfilling prophecy. I hear the stories, feel the pain and embarrassment, and know I won’t be tolerant of it so I choose to not put myself in those positions.

So, I’m afraid to take him places and this feeds the cycle of spending limited time together. In August, I took both boys to the Museum of Flight. I almost didn’t take Son #2 because it was near lunch time. And because he’s on a hunger strike against lunch and having low blood sugar turns him into an angry honey badger, I kind of felt that this was the recipe for a catastrophic failure on the order of a star imploding in outer space. The funny thing is that the reputation far exceeds the reality. Results in public with Son #2 are generally quite pleasing as long as he gets to sit in the shopping cart, get a pretzel and a slurpee, carry toys that won’t be purchased and not wear a jacket in the rain. The heightened awareness is the awkwardness we get to experience as a parent just waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop with our high maintenance kids.


You’d think I’d get it; and I do. I’m pretty high maintenance. I get a little worked up over things. Now, I’m not so stubborn that I need to ride in a shopping cart and have pretzel fed to me. I suppose I just hate the fact that I get it. We’re pretty similar. I’m learning to be more tolerant with the outbursts and finding out that it’s only a phase and the payoff in getting is super rewarding.

Playing together is becoming more imaginative and I actually get to be involved. Before, I would sit and watch, not participate, and wait for guidance which would never come. Some of that was due to me being apprehensive and not knowing how to manage his ordered style of play. And some of it was him telling me not to touch his toys. But now, there’s the guidance like, “Dad, you use Tow Mater and I use Ightning.” (That’s Lightning for people who can’t speak Son #2’s incomprehensible dialect) But more importantly, there’s the joy of cooperative play and imagination where we both enjoy creating our story.


Conversations are becoming more fun too. While some things are indiscernible, other stories and diatribes are quite colorfully driven with irrelevance and poor grammar. Some of his latest blurbs of incoherence include the following. And truly comprehend the lunacy of the talk, I have added context around how things were said:

While wearing toy-protective goggles so innocently called ‘swim goggles,’ Son #2 ran laps around the living room of our home making splashing noises. After one not-so-unique lap, he places a cup to his ear and utters, “I hear the ocean!” then continues to run/swim.

On a short drive to his grandparents’ house, we quickly passed by a rather small murky pond. Son #2 announces his observation in an authoritative matter, “Alligators in the pond!” Eager to learn more and understand how this conclusion was reach we ask how he knows. And without pause or moment of introspection he retorts, “I heard them splash.” But it doesn’t end there. He continues to explain, “Dolphins too. I heard them splash.” I think we may need to discuss hunting and escaping with our youngest.

Son #2 also likes to weigh with his opinion on food products. On another trip to his grandparents’ house, a small field which once had several large turkeys is now noticeably empty. Spoken like a true Pilgrim, he tells us, “The turkeys are gone. They’re now in turkey sandwiches!” He must have an penchant for fowl. Unlike his older brother, he’s firmly cognizant of the correlation between chickens which cluck and those that have been deep fried. In what can only be described as a Neanderthal-like commentary, Son #2 advised his mother on his poultry philosophy by saying, “I eat those chickens up like this, chomp chomp chomp.”


So life is awkward for both of us. But the comedy along the way makes up for the anxiety that is prematurely cast on life. He’s learning to be a passionate little boy and express himself. I’m learning to be his uncomfortably awkward and involved father.

When it comes to your children, parents typically have the innate ability to overlook the most odd behaviors and features of their spawn. For example, like when you’re at the airport and you see a family waiting to board their plane to somewhere and their eight year old is digging for gold in his nose while mom and dad bicker about who has the rental car reservation information. Excavation continues until there’s safe removal of what looks to be an appendage of a small alien. Mom and dad glance over but make no mention to the kid about his actions or the examination of the solidified mucus alien arm.

Ignore.

What about ugly kids? I think you know where I'm going with this. As a parent, you have to find beauty in your kid. Lazy eye, gimp, bald, or a pumpkin head, we love them the same. But others don't have the same compassion.

I’m not saying I’m any of the above because I'm not. In fact, I may be worse than those that are oblivious to the goings on with their children. I actually acknowledge the behavior and then write about here for the world to read and have a giant collective internet chuckle.

That leads me to Son #2.

He doesn't get a lot of coverage on the blog. Is it because he’s less interesting than Son #1? No. I've always thought he was a very interesting kid but his attitude sucks. Is it because he’s an unattractive little monster with tendency toward nose picking? Sort of. He’s a good looking kid which is the reason for all of his modeling call backs. But the kid’s right index finger is always lodged firmly into his right nostril.


The reason for the lack of pixilated attention is a direct correlation to the attention he demands. You spend most of your time getting him snacks and milk. The kid can eat and scream when he is unhappy. After you're done tending to his sustenance needs to satisfy his ridiculously loud temper tantrums, you're often done with him. The cuteness has worn off and writing about him is the last thing on your mind. In fact, it's an adult-type drink for you and a closet and muzzle for him.


I love Son #2 and his penchant for eating (or not eating) and talking back during the same session. I don't know many kids that dislike the tastiness of grilled cheese and/or peanut butter sandwiches but Son #2 is one of those rarities. Any time you make him a sandwich for a meal, you get some sort of sass talk in his temper-driven at times incomprehensible language. The funny thing is that when he’s pissed off about being served a meal he has no interest in consuming; he’ll repeat exactly what you say to him as it is some point of emphasis.

Me: "Do you want a grilled cheese sandwich?"
Him: "No grilled cheese sandwich!"
Me: "Eat your dinner."
Him: "No eat your dinner!"
Me: “It’s time for a nap!”
Him: “No time for a nap!”
Me: "Do you want a time out for talking to me like that?"
Him: "No time out for talking to me like that?
Me: “Do you need to be beaten?”
Him: “No need to be beaten!”
Me: “I’m going to sell you to the gypsies!”
Him: “No sell you to the gypsies!”
Me: "That's it!"
Him: "No that's it!"

Eventually, he gets hungry enough that even the coldest and soggiest of grilled cheese is tasty and consumed. The dialogue above isn’t the behavior that I ignore or turn a blind eye toward. In fact, I love this about him. He’s like my own little angry parrot. The behavioral topic to discuss here is his creative method of eating sandwiches.

He’s all about eating the business end of sandwiches, no matter what type. I just don't get it. While most kids would only eat the soft fluffy goodness of bread and the sandwich innards, Son #2 prefers the roughness of the crusty edges. It doesn't matter what kind of sandwich it is, what type of bread it is, or how stale or rotten it is, he’ll motor around the periphery of the sandwich like a little typewriter gnawing off the toasted edges of the grilled cheese sandwich or the dripping jelly saturated crust of a PB&J. It’s just counterintuitive to being a little boy.


Reflecting back on my days as young boy, I can recall being nagged by my parents, family members, and friends to eat the crust off my sandwich. If you want to grow up and be a strong football player, you need to eat the crust, I was always being told. Unbeknownst to them all, I didn't care about being a big strong football player. I just want the middle goodness of my sandwich and my potato chips. Spare me the ‘eat your veggies and the crust on your sandwich so I can grow up and be healthy' urban legends and old wives’ tales. The crust is good for dogs and people that listen to their parents. Not me.


So maybe that's my karma here. Son #2 won't eat the fluffy bread no matter what the threat is. He’s strangely defiant in his obsession with doing things his own way. Who am I to judge him over his blatant disregard for my advice? After all, it’s a sandwich eater’s freedom of choice how he or she consumes a sandwich. It's a funny sight though to watch him eat the edges and only the edges. The carnage left over looks mealy and gnawed on by a rat dog. And just like my crust from years ago, his scraps are suitable enough for our pups.