The son becomes the father

"Dads are like backup quarterbacks in the NFL.  On the rare occasion you're brought into the game, people are nervous.  You're good for a play or two, but then people are like, when's the starter coming back?" - James Gaffigan

Mrs. Bone was visiting her homeland this past weekend, so I was called up to active duty.  You know it's going well when it's still the first day and you're already getting the "When is Mama coming home?" question.  I'm like, bruh, she's gone longer than this when she goes to work!

Kids: Too young to survive on their own.  Too old to drop off in the safe haven box in front of the fire station.

You might recall (from two posts ago) that I nearly died one of the last times Mrs. Bone split.  Well, I'm thinking there must be some sort of subconscious psychosomatic forces at work, because on Friday, I began to feel ill again.  Felt feverish on Saturday with all sorts of mucous emanating from my nose and throat.  Just wanted to stay in bed all day.  (But again, too young to survive on their own.  Although I really think they would've been okay for a few hours, child protective services can be a stickler sometimes on things like that.)

Instead, I laid on the couch, dozing every few minutes, then being awoken by Luke nudging me, "Daddy?"  "Yes, buddy?"  "You're snoring."  "Sorry, buddy."  Cough.  Rinse.  Repeat.

A neighbor came over to check on me/us on Saturday.  "Do you need anything?"  I wanted to say, "Yes, please just watch my kids for like two hours so I can sleeeeeeep!"  But instead, I told her no, that we were fine.

At some point, I started thinking that I could never remember my parents being sick when I was a kid.  I remember big things, like Mom having to go to the emergency room when she slipped on ice one winter and split open her wrist.  But as far as colds, flus, etc., nothing comes to mind.

Maybe they just powered through, as a parent will.  Or maybe, just perhaps, I was outside playing somewhere in the neighborhood all day while they caught a nice little four-hour siesta.

I'd give anything if my kids could have that sort of childhood.  We would leave in the morning, or after school, and be gone for hours.  Dad would stand in the yard and yell across the land when it was suppertime, and we'd come home.

I wish they could know the freedom of riding bikes, being out of sight for hours, exploring the woods, the old rock crusher pond, building forts, killing snakes, and climbing trees.

Part of the issue is we don't live in a neighborhood.  Instead, we live on a fairly busy two-lane road, with no sidewalk.  It's also possible I/we have helicoptered a bit too much.  And by possible, I mean, it's a stone-cold fact and probably an understatement.  But how could you not in this day and time?

I don't think my parents ever worried about some stranger walking down the street snatching us up and abducting us.  They probably wished for it some days.  After all, one of Mom's favorite sayings was, "Why don't ya'll go play in the road in front of an 18-wheeler?"  You gotta chuckle at those folksy Southernisms passed down from generation to generation.  Of course, Mom grew up on a one-lane dirt road, so... probably no 18-wheelers.  Hmm.  Oh well, who knows where old sayings come from.

It's only been in the last year that I've convinced Luke he can go out front and play basketball by himself.  Of course, as soon as I don't hear the rhythmic pounding of ball on pavement for more than five consecutive seconds, I rush to the window to look out and make sure he is ok.  He, in turn, will come inside if he sees a stranger walking down the road.  

And I'm glad he does it!  I just hate that he has to.

We had fire drills and tornado drills.  My kids have lockdown drills.

I try to be so careful not to let them hear or know my fears.  Let them be little and feel safe for as long as they can.  But at the same time, I want them to be smart, and recognize when something is dangerous.  Can you be fearless and cautious at the same time?

This dad thing, I tell ya.  You want to push them, but not too much.  You want to protect them, hold and help them, while somehow teaching them to be independent.  Mostly, you want to give them every opportunity to be healthy and happy while stressing over every single decision and hoping you're not screwing them up.

It's exhausting.  

Which is why, after getting them safely to school on time Monday morning, Daddy called out sick from work and came home and slept until noon.  Because just as my parents understood the value, yea necessity, of a solid four-hour nap, so does their favorite son.

But hey, we made it through relatively unscathed.  I didn't die.  Didn't even wind up in the hospital this time.   And by the end of the weekend, I even had Harper on her knees begging me to let her clean the cabinets.  (Don't ask about the stars.  OK, it's a pick your battles thing.  Also, I have discovered that "gotta pick your battles" is something you can say anytime you let your kids do whatever they want.)

Friends, this is how you dad.  Or at least how I dad.  

Lord in heaven, please don't let me screw it up.