FATHER'S DAY
One of the major differences between Mother's Day and Father's Day is the
difference between Mother's and Father's. Mother's, on their special day,
reflect on the birth of their children, the journey through infancy and
early childhood, and so on. Father's reflect on those hellish occasions that
caused you to question your whole life, wonder about the prospect of
parenthood in it's entirety, and to think about your childless friends and
how they're probably off indulging themselves at whatever hobby fancies
them, rife with cash from the money saved after years of caring for, and
entertaining, only themselves.
We had a standout weekend at our household last fall that induced all of the
aforementioned emotions, and then some. I have more offspring than I will
mention in this column, but the stars of this particular weekend were my
eight year old son, Mitchell, and his nine year old brother, Dominic. It was
last September, and the weekend of Dominic's ninth birthday. He had decided
to have a "camp-out" in the backyard with about ten of his friends. A
"camp-out", for those not familiar, is about three little tents, and a bunch
of kids who will never go to sleep in a tent. We had planned a little camp
fire with a marshmallow roasting session. Gifts had been given earlier,
including an electric scooter which my wife and I had given him. He rode the
scooter about ten feet, realized he was out of his depth, and parked it in
the garage, clearly with no intentions of riding it again.
About 9:00 in the evening we had our little camp fire started. My in-laws,
high-wire Italians from North Jersey, were spending the weekend and were
inside. My mother-in-law screams like a homicide victim at the sight of a
mosquito and was not about to be outside at night. Everything was rolling
along nicely. I remember watching the kids in the glow of the fire,
remembering the magic of those autumn nights when I was young. A group of
boys, including Dominic, were at the edge of the woods getting sharp sticks
for marshmallows. Suddenly, all hell broke loose....screaming, kids running
in circles jumping up and down, shedding their clothes. They had been
standing on an underground yellow jacket-bee's nest. Some of you may know,
these are the most aggressive, no b.s. bee on the market. Kids under attack
will always head for the house. This night was no exception, and with them
went a trail of bees, not to mention bees who had smuggled themselves over
the border in socks and underpants. My mother-in-law went immediately to
Full-Italian-High-Drama mode, screaming "BEE" at the top of her lungs as she
ran from room to room looking for a safe-zone. My son's birthday party had
turned into a Stephen King movie.
My poor son got the worst, eleven bee-stings, other kids got from zero to
five. I'm sweating bullets and waiting for the first kid to start swelling
up like the Michelin Man. Returning a kid to their parents with wet clothes
is awkward enough, returning them post-mortem is really uncomfortable.
Remarkably, only a couple of kids opted to call their parents and go home.
We managed to salvage the evening with the rest. I spent the rest of the
night hunting bees with over sixty on my kill list be the end of the night.
The next morning, I decided to get up early and go flying. General aviation
is my hobby and on weekends we get together, fly to a nearby airport for
breakfast, and return. Clears the head and affords an always beautiful
magic-carpet ride over the New England countryside. Returning from the
airport, pulling in my driveway, I see the electric scooter laying in the
yard. My neighbor, an elderly gentleman who is like family, is coming out
of the house..."I think you've got a broken arm in there..." That's
right...first thing in the morning; Mitchell had decided he would sneak an
unauthorized and unannounced ride on that scooter. Thank God he had the
sense to put on his bicycle helmet. It may have saved his life. He had
gone up the street and come down, got sucked into the shoulder, and gone ass
over teakettle right in front of my neighbor's yard. His face was pretty
bruised up as well.
Hours later at the hospital, after Mitch came out of surgery for his arm, I
was having one of those Father's Day moments. Wondering what kind of parent
I could be having nearly lost both kids in one weekend. Nothing hurts like
watching your kids hurt, and if you feel as though you could have helped
avoid it, it's ten times worse. At the same time, I wonder how I could love
any person so much, through so much, at any cost, and unconditionally. This
is the beauty of being a father and I need nothing more on Father's Day than
to be in my children's company.