Conversations and Questions

Silas: Daddy, I want to see my momma.

Me: It's too late tonight (his request came after 9 p.m., which is not only past his bedtime, but means it's after 2 a.m. in London), but we'll look for her on the computer (skype) in the morning.

Silas (his back turned from me, masking, I think, a tear or two): No. I don't want her on the computer, or on the phone, I want to hug her.

Someone please tell me what page to turn to in the playbook for the appropriate response to this request.

The Origin of The Dude

Anyone who has subjected themselves to the uniquely blissful, trailer park zen experience of watching The Big Lebowski knows that it's one of the F-bombingest movies of all time. Ostensibly, our golden retriever pup came by the name The Dude to pay homage to Jeff Bridges' turn as The Dude in the cult classic, and it never gets old to turn the phrase "The Dude abides" after our Dude performs rare acts of obedience (it turns out that Marley might've been a more apt monicker so far as film allusions go). When he's not abiding, which is most of the time, our Dude is dislocating the shoulders of anyone who dares venture on a walk with him, humping the neighbor's dog (who is male, yet oddly doesn't object), or getting one of us up every 30 minutes to take him out for an explosive diarrhea session after he's ingested yet another foreign object. Instead of "Shut the fuck up, Donny," it's "Quit fuckin' shitting, Dude," at four in the morning.

One should never let reality get in the way of a good story, but in reality The Dude's name has much simpler origins. We purchased the pup as a Christmas gift for my father in law, who had recently laid to rest his golden oldie, Chester (the Molester), who had in fact made his mark like an old male dog before becoming an old male dog and succumbing to the vet's needle. Things got really ugly towards the end, and it had to be done. We decided to just call the new model Dude, as not to get too attached, while we sheltered him until Christmas. It seemed like such a thoughtful gesture to replace the fallen golden with The Golden Dude, as my father in law has taken to calling him. Unfortunately, my mother in law had other ideas. Adamant about not having another golden, she went out--with full knowledge of the gift we had in store for her husband--and got a dog from the animal shelter a few days before Christmas. We gave them The Dude anyway, but two pups proved to be too much, and a few weeks later our thoughtful gesture was re-gifted. And the dog we didn't want to get too attached to has been sitting at my feet ever since.

Much to my better half's chagrin, I stubbornly clung to the name, The Dude, until it stuck as his official name. The only problem is that I call everybody dude, and this has created a few instances of confusion for the other boisterous boy that, like the dog, is rarely anywhere but attached to my hip. "Dude, No!" are common words around these parts. Sometimes a surprised Silas will get a hurt and confused look and ask, "Do you mean dude me no or Dude dog no?" Most of the time it could probably go for either of them, kind of a blanket condemnation of all preschooler and puppy bad choices, but Silas is very relieved on the occasions when it turns out that he is in the clear.

I love how the boy says dude, drawing out the ooooh in his angelic drawl. Hearing him say it got me to thinking. Maybe The Dude's name does have deeper origins; dude was in fact the very first word the boy ever uttered. Long before my dog walking days, I'd strap the boy in the backpack carrier and traipse around the neighborhood giving him language lessons. Well, I suppose it was a lesson if you consider my repeating "Daddy" over and over again in hopes that it would become his first word to be a lesson. He had the "D" down, but the stuttering "D-d-d-d-duh" sounds were soon followed by an ooh instead of an ah. Add another "D" and you've got "duh-oooo-duh."

"No, Da-a-a-a-a-a-d," I'd coax.

"Duh-oooo-duh," he'd reply.

"Howabout Da-da," I said.

"Duh-oooo-duh," he insisted.

Sigh.

Defeated, I decided to nurture the boy's new gift of language as best I could. The cows in the pasture up the road must have thought it strange to hear me and Silas inflecting the seemingly endless varieties of "dude," like in the beer commercials, as we took our evening strolls. Soon we were delighting in similar sounding words like doo-doo and dookie. It's much nicer to say than it is to scrape off his bottom during a diaper change. "Dude! Did you go doo-doo?"

Since then we've had many adventures (and misadventures) with words, like the time when--in front of the babysitter, no less--two-year-old Silas drove his ride-on toy into the wall at breakneck speed, nearly tumbled over the handle bars, and shouted, "FUCK!" Maybe he wasn't all the way asleep yet that time when I watched The Big Lebowski while he snuggled me in bed. Dude, everything comes full circle.

Everybody's Searching for Something

This was a paragraph or two jotted down at the beach over two years ago. It's since been through a few revisions, finally morphing into what you see below:

Last night my eyes searched the sky for a coy moon. It’s less than half a moon, yet much more than a sliver. There’s enough glow to backlight the hazy clouds, so I know just about where to look as I anticipate its triumphant return through the puffy, cumulous outline. It’s like a game of hide and seek with the clouds in total control, at least until the sun breaks over the horizon. The night before things were much more clear. The moon, then half full and undaunted by drifting encumbers of clouds, parted the sea with its spotlight. The shaft of light ran from the tide pools to the distant horizon, illuminating each swell as they approached the end of their journey. Beyond the moon’s beam was a cold darkness, an impenetrable black framing the glowing ocean. It was as if a path had been illuminated for me. Whether gliding back and forth on a porch rocker, or traipsing barefoot in the cool, moist sand, the moonbeam beckoned me, seemingly coming to an end at my feet no matter where they stood. I felt then as if I knew my way; I could walk across that water.

But I barely got my toes wet. I just watched, taking in the scene in awe. And then, before I knew it, the moon gave way to a brilliant sunrise. The haze amplified the orange glow that foretold the sun’s arrival, until finally a blinding orb rose from the sea and burned away the haze. It was a new day, yet it seemed like an ending. And I missed the night.

That afternoon was a science lesson for my two-and-a-half-year-old son, Silas. What do you call a group of porpoises? Cattle roam in a herd. Geese fly in a flock. Whales putter through the sea in a pod. Whales and porpoises are close enough, and the alliteration is nice, so why not? Yes, we saw a pod of porpoises. They danced to the surface for air in pairs just beyond the cresting of crashing waves. Pelicans, too, worked the unseen, from our vantage point on shore anyway, school of fish. The noble sea birds stretched their necks and tucked their long wings, morphing into a missile before dive bombing into the unsuspecting school, more often than not emerging with their gullets full of sea water and lunch. Silas, taking it all in from his familiar perch on my right hip, asked, “Ride, dada?” Just like all the horses and cattle he sees during our drives in the rolling hillsides of home, he wanted to ride the porpoises. It’s hard to convince a toddler of the impossibility of some things. But he comes by it honest; just two nights ago I thought I might walk on water, and even if on the following night the moonlit path eluded me, I know the way may return tonight, tomorrow night… I am a dreamer.
But back to our science lesson. The tension was mounting, and I knew that if I did not redirect my son’s attention, I would either be plodding through the chilly ocean in search of an amenable porpoise, or watching the boy thrash about like a beached whale when I told him, finally, that we simply could not ride the black, bottle-nosed mammals. Tantrums at two beat all. But the little diggers came to my rescue. I had to look no further than my sea tickled toes, where tiny clams, deposited by the surf, left the safety of their colorful calcium shells, latched on to the porous sand, and burrowed under the surface. We had to look fast, as a second or two after each wave passed, the clams were gone, either swept away by the next wave, or adroitly angled just below the surface in the nick of time. “Look at the little diggers!” I exclaimed. I didn’t know exactly what to call them at the time. And, reluctantly at first, Silas obliged. But once he caught sight of one, with its lavender spirals radiating from the ligament uniting its perfectly symmetrical halves, he was hooked. The porpoise pod was now free to roam in peace. And the little diggers got an assist, as Silas quickly learned to grab handfuls of wet sand, spot a digger, and splatter the sand on top of it just before the arrival of the next wave.

That evening I pulled the trusty Audubon Society guide off the shelf. The little diggers are called coquina. Scarcely the size of your thumbnail, they come in nearly every color imaginable, their iridescent white circled by various shades of pink, blue, orange and brown. Silas saw their picture and, pointing, shouted, “Diggers!” They are so plentiful in some areas of Florida, the guide informed me, that their shells merge just beyond the low tide line to form a kind of limestone coral. Much of the architecture in St. Augustine, America’s oldest city, is constructed from the sea-swept remains of coquina. I’m not sure Silas will remember much from this lesson other than that the coquina share his love for digging in the sand, but I hoped that somehow my own curiosity rubbed off on him, and that, as he ages, perhaps he’ll trade choo choo trains and animated movies for books.

The next night at sunset we returned to the water’s edge in search of the little diggers, finding them plentiful. And for every one that burrows its way under the surface, half a dozen half shell remains, presumably picked apart by the last wintering sanderlings, tumble by like rainbows in the foamy green surf. I wanted an intact remains as a keepsake, and mined the shell-specked sand devotedly while Silas gathered larger shells and smooth, sea-worn stones to toss at the oncoming waves. Often I would find two coquina shells that looked nearly identical, but trying to fit them together revealed less than a perfect match. It seems that in life they are perfectly mated, but in death they are forever separated. I could’ve plucked any number of live ones for my purposes, but it wasn’t for me to take that, to have that.

Silas went to bed with his father, but awoke three hours later to find himself alone, dad out searching for the moon, foolishly, for tonight the clouds returned, bearing rain. The window to our bedroom stood open to better hear the ocean, so I heard his faint cries of “Dadda” break the rhythm of the surf from the adjacent porch, and quickly rose to soothe him. He asked for a hug, and my arms sought him out through the darkness. I held him tight until it seemed he had drifted back into his dreams. But before he slumbered, he wriggled free from my arms and showered my face with kisses. “Thanks for the kisses,” I whispered. “Thanks for the kisses; now goodnight, sweet boy.” And I slipped away, still dreaming.

Puppy Love

These words replaced my sleep this morning ("Dude," for those who don't know, is our dog).

Ella: Dude was licking our butts. And we let him because it tickles.

Silas: But did you know, that dogs sniff butts to make friends? And last night, Laurel, I sniffed her butt because we were playing puppy and making friends. But I just sniffed it once.

The Tummy Timebomb is Ticking

It's reasonable for me to hope he hits the toilet. Since he was born with an epiglottis that didn't form a proper lid over his esophagus until he was 7 months old, Silas honed his vomiting skills at an early age. It wasn't uncommon for him to return his milk, along with rancid smelling stomach juices, 10 or more times a day when he was an infant. Since then barfing has evolved into a form of expression. Get him upset enough, and the boy rewards you with a putrid projection of half chewed goldfish and bile. That's mighty good motivation to encourage him to "use your words" to express feelings.

If anything, from the common cold to a nasty ear infection, invades his immune system, a few days of intermittent vomiting is sure to ensue. That brings us to now. Not too surprisingly since he seemingly clings to me 20 hours a day, Silas has acquired the energy-sapping cold that I haven't been able to shed for the past four days. I knew something was up when he refused food all day. The kicker was when he fell asleep on the couch before dinner despite the fact that we had company, Rachel's friend Brady, who he adores. The boy is radiating heat like the tip of a cigarette lighter on the fourth of July, yet he says he feels cold. His breathing is quick and labored. He is sick alright. And I wait, praying that tonight I won't be faced with the difficult decision of which to do first: soothe him back to sleep or mop up his mess. I can almost feel the warmed remains of the last thing he consumed, a yogurt parfait from McDonald's, penetrating the paper towels swaddled around my reluctant hands.

I have hundreds of barf stories, each its own merit badge of fatherhood. His excellent control of his regurgitating faculties is both blessing and curse. He has become quite adept at hitting the toilet (more on that in a minute), but he also has the power to summon his cookies whenever it suits him. The boy detests school, and he has a knack for developing sudden and suspicious early-morning illnesses as dad frantically tries to shuttle him off and get himself to work on time. One morning I felt like I was being duped, so I loaded him up with ibuprofen ("This will make you feel all better so you don't have to miss school and daddy doesn't have to miss work") and slapped him in his car seat, figuring a little over-the-counter pain meds couldn't hurt since the only thing really wrong with him was an acute desire to cuddle with dad on the couch watching Thomas the Tank Engine all day.

"Daddy, I don't feel good," became the chorus on the way to school, with a healthy dose of "My tummy hurts" spliced in for good measure.

"The medicine will start working soon, and you'll be all better," I assured him.

"Nooooo," he whined, stretching it out into several syllabus, "I don't want to go to school. I want to go to your work with you, dadda."

That confirmed it for me; he only breaks out "dadda" when he is in his most manipulative mode. The wee man is trying to pull a fast one on his old man. I walked briskly ahead of him down the hall to his classroom, my chin held high as he came dragging along behind me, tethered to my hand. I have won this power struggle. But as I looked back, the smug little smile at the edges of my countenance faded. A swell of sea green washed the color from his cheeks. He was going to blow.

"Silas, don't..."

It was too late. The teachers' bathroom was two turns and twenty feet away, and a stream of breakfast was already shooting from his hole like a garden hose half-plugged by a thumb. My grip tightened. I swear I heard him gurgle "hurry, daddy" as he hung like a flag taut in the wind behind me on my sprint to the john. Miraculously, instead of settling on the walls and floor around us, the foul lava lashing from the vomit volcano became a lasso-like extension from the boy's tongue. He guided it safely through tight turns before snapping it home with a violent splash, even having the courtesy to miss my hand as it lifted the seat just a split second before impact. It was like watching a scene out of The Matrix, only with barf instead of bullets.

Silas braced his hands on the toilet's edges and hunkered down, determined to deliver the rest of his load. His tiny body recoiled and backfired again and again until, finally, the flush told us it was over, for now. My head bowed--not only had I lost the power struggle, but the boy really was sick--I helped him wash his hands. We scurried out of the school house the way we came in, and I noted, thankfully, the lack of puke particles in our wake.

"You did a great job getting it in the toilet."

"Sorry I threw up, daddy," he said, twisting the knife of guilt another notch deeper.

"It's OK. You couldn't help it. You really are sick."

Plan B.

The only thing that stresses me out more than running late for work, I now know, is running late for work with a vomitous three-year-old in tow. He's not feeling well, I reasoned, so he will gladly sit still and draw with crayons or play on the classroom computer. No one will even notice him.

In unison, twenty college freshmen--even the guys--greeted us with, "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww, he's soooooooooooo cute," as we burst into the class in our familiar formation, dad striding ardently with Silas, squeezed hand turning red, dragging along behind. So much for not noticing him.

"OK buddy, sit right here and draw," I said, plopping down a pack of paper I ripped from the copier on our dash to class.

As I made my way through the aisles, returning a batch of essays I'd recently commented on, I explained that the boy was sick, and that he would be joining us today. After I had handed back just a handful of essays, the boy announced that he had something to show me, and the class's progress was stunted again and again as I examined his quickly dashed off scribbles. He tore through the stack like a star athlete signing glossy 8x10s.

"That's nice, but there's a lot more space here where you could color."

"No, I'm done with this one."

About three words into my general feedback on what students could focus on to improve their essays in their next draft, Si announced that he had another one to show me.

"It's a snake, dadda."

Snakes and the ever-so-similar letter S--which figures so prominently in his name--were the only two representational symbols Silas had a grasp on at the time.

"That's great, it really is, but can you show me all of your pictures after class?"

My face glowing red, I forged ahead, hoping to spark a discussion on the day's reading, but not one eye in the room was on me.

"I'm out of paper, dadda."

"You can use the backs," I replied, bunching his minimalist Pollocks together and flipping them over.

"I don't want to draw on the back."

Rather than fighting this battle I returned to the notes on my legal pad for the day's class. I threw a question out to the group....

Silence...

I could feel the boy moving behind me but tried to ignore it. No one is looking at me, but at least, for once, I don't see anyone texting as I scan the room.

More silence...

Then, finally, laughter as a series of snakes took form on the chalkboard. He hummed as he made his way left to right, his shirt gathering a line of white powder.

I don't remember now what bribe was proffered--a trip to the toy store, an edible treat--but after I whispered in his ear he again agreed to sit quietly, and the waxy residue of the crayolas left their marks on the back of the copier paper. I strode confidently back into the role of teacher.

"OK class, now we can start."

College girls, several of whom have served as his attentive babysitters over the years, are his favorite demographic (can't really blame him there). Even the most devoted dad eventually reaches the threshold of tolerance for building train tracks, and Silas cherishes the level of doting attention that only comes from a hired hand. Before me I saw a group of college students, and it was my duty, even under these circumstances, to shepherd them on their quest for knowledge. But the boy's eyes saw prospects, a fertile ground from which he would harvest a hide and seek partner. Only a minute or two after his pledge of silence, Silas crept from his seat and sidled over to the young lady closest in proximity, gazed deep into her eyes and uttered the line that would do us in for the day: "Will you be my babysitter?"

Uproarious laughter filled the room.

At that point I probably should've offered her some extra credit to remove him from the class and entertain him for an hour, but clear thinking was beyond my meager capabilities at this point. I couldn't have been more embarrassed if I had farted in church. I so clearly had a complete and utter lack of control over my kid!

"OK, this isn't going to work. Give me your journals and check your emails; I'll send you instructions on how we're going to make up what we missed today. Class dismissed!"

The boy was very popular with 20 college freshmen that day. Actually, make that 60 college students. I had two more classes later in the day, but rather than repeat this disastrous scene I just left their essays in two neat stacks at the front of the room, and instructed them to check their email for the day's notes and a revised schedule.

One of my students played with him for a bit while I gathered my things. Surprised by his level of energy, she asked me if he was really sick. I was sure to tell her at our next class that, not ten minutes after she posed that question, I was trying to squeeze his head through the neck of a barf-encrusted shirt and prying chunks of smelly, half-digested cereal out of the crevices of the boy's car seat. He puked all over himself, his seat, and the truck on the way home.

. . .

Two days after the cold that inspired this trip down memory lane, I'm happy to report that the boy seems to be back to good health, and that, for perhaps the first time ever, we survived an illness without any throw up!

Silas Blows His Own Horn

Conversation this morning after the boy's bath:

Boy: My willie looks like a slug.

Dad: Huh. It's not all slimy, I hope.

Boy: I have the biggest willie of all the boys at my old school.

Dad: (Shocked into silence, wondering what exactly they do at school.)

Boy: My willie is sooooo big, daddy.

Dad: Um. Ok. Well that's good. It's good to have a big willie, I guess.

Boy: And you have a giant willie, daddy.

Dad: Um. Well actually.... Um.