“Yes son? I’m right here by the way. Right in front of you. In fact, besides the dog, I’m the only living creature who can communicate in English with you…right now…this very moment. So, there’s really no need to begin your ten-thousandth question with my name.”
“You think I can have a friend over this afternoon?”
“Probably not buddy. Your mom and I have to do a couple things.”
“Can you do them while I have a friend over?”
“No Grayson. Seriously, we’re going to need you to have some down time and just read or play on your own so we can knock out this project.”
“Are you going to begin the project now? Can I have someone over before the project?”
“No, we’re getting ready to do the project.”
“How about after? If someone comes over during I’ll be out of your way and you can work on the project.”
“Grayson. Stop talking. Stop asking questions. The answer’s no!”
“Because I’m your father and I explained enough that we have plans and they don’t include you having a friend over!!”
I walk away to get water. Three steps into the kitchen I hear the boy say, “Hey daddy?”
And at that very moment in time you realize the patience, control, training and strength an Olympian must feel when they’re seconds from their race. Fuck yeah I just compared parenting to being an Olympian! Are you gonna look me in the eye-balls and tell me I’m wrong!?!
My son’s questions are becoming mind-numbingly painful. To the point to where I feel like I should set aside an hour a day to take his future teacher out for drinks after the school bell rings each day.
But you know how I get by?
I dream of a day. A sunny, yet cool day.
And I have a handshake agreement with the world that after this next conversation with my child goes down it will be erased from his memory.
And for once I have a green light to answer the boy’s questions how I see fit.
And it goes down like this:
The Boy: “Daddy?”
Me: “Say Daddy again I can assure you I won’t close the door or turn the fans and radio on the next time your mom and I have sex!!”
The Boy: “Can I have a play date?”
Me: “You're adopted and Santa's not real.”
The Boy: “Why are you so stressed?”
Me: “Because my dear boy, your questions are like a weed eater against my shin….relentlessly slicing me until I feel like walking into traffic!!”
The Boy: “Wanna go kick the soccer ball?”
Me: “Fuck yes!”
And then we go outside, kick the ball with great music playing in the background. And that’s when I start asking the questions…
“How was camp dude?”
“Are you excited for soccer season to start?”
“You know I love you right?”
And when he becomes a teenager, roles will reverse….and he…he will be the one blogging about his dad’s incessant painfully boring questions. And he’ll be wishing them to stop.
So until then, I’ll keep perspective and keep answering to my new beloved name, “Hey Daddy?”