A hero for five minutes. But what a five minutes it was. All thanks to Elmer the Elephant. Or I should say finding Elmer. Which I did. And which made me a hero. Even if for only five short ones. I’ll take it. It had been bedlam that morning. Mother and child hurrying about the house, trying to find something. Heck if I knew what. All I knew is it looked like there had been an avalanche of stuffed animals in my daughter’s closet, and there may or may not have been one of my family members trapped below them.
A new knee and playing nurse for dear old dad
It’s a strange and wonderful thing, helping a parent recover from surgery. “Wonderful” because you’re returning the favor after all those years he or she raised you. Wiping your bottom. Cutting up your steak. Listening to doctors’ instructions, and remembering when you’re supposed to take medicine. Not even trying to duck when you threw up. “Strange” because now it’s you asking things like: “So … uh … you don’t actually need help going to the bathroom, right?” Because I’m sure as heck not wiping any bottoms! Pop got a ride home from the hospital and I’m calling it even.
Father camera units and the great preschool graduation debacle
I do declare … a kindergartner. That’s what my daughter is now. She graduated from Memorial Presbyterian Day School, a wonderful place where she learned amazing things, including how to turn washable paints into permanent ink stains. It was a terrific little ceremony the other night, filled with merriment, songs by children (some whose voices could carve names into glass) and diplomas for little tikes in blue caps and flowing gowns. Precious.
A Dad Working on Emergency Reaction Time
In a brand new hotel in Chapel Hill, N.C., I realized something this summer: My family is woefully un-prepared should disaster strike. In the wee hours of the night, as we slept on virgin pillows and virgin sheets, we were suddenly awoken by the most wretched of noises. It sounded as if a pterodactyl was throwing up in the bathroom. Loud and rancorous, it assaulted the ears — a pulsing, throbbing, piercing noise. BLURT-BLURT-BLURT. My first reaction was anger. How dare some North Carolina pterodactyl disturb my slumber. The nerve! There’s nothing like, and nothing worse, than the disorientating fog of being awoken in the middle of the night. You slowly come to your senses — grab a bit of awareness out of the air — and then remember that pterodactyls are long-since extinct. The blaring noise was really a fire alarm. “How dare the hotel be on fire!” I remember thinking.
Understanding the Dad on the Fence
I never understood why he was always there. Standing alone along the fence line or hanging out in the empty, sun-drenched stands. It was high school soccer practice. Practice, for goodness sake! But there he was. Every day it seemed. Every time we rolled out onto the field. I just couldn’t understand why he would hang out and watch a bunch of knuckleheads run through monotonous drills, get yelled at by a coach and try at every opportunity to drop some poor, unsuspecting teammate’s shorts. Most of us didn’t want to be there. So why would a parent? Tampa’s weather can be terminal. It’s such a ferocious mix of heat and humidity. In 20 minutes, it could fully cook a bag of rice left out on the sidewalk. Dense and sweltering, it burned your lungs and squeezed you like a sandwich press. Then a man with a whistle barked at you to run laps until your feet swelled up like watermelons. When guys dropped, we would just bury them right there on the field and keep on running. So to me it made no sense why my dad showed up all those afternoons. There wasn’t much to see, and there had to be better things to do at the end of a long day. Why was he always there?