I’ve heard my quest to become a “Daddy Blogger” necessitates a proper introduction of those who actually call me Dad, or some variation thereof. I really thought I could get away with just referring to these guys as, “my oldest”, “the middle one” and “my youngest”. Apparently such references lack heart and do not invite the reader to become personally connected with my sons who promise to play a prominent role in my blog entries. My defense that I am actually an “Author Blogger”, or that I’m a “Teacher Blogger” met with some resistance. Funny, the one who voiced this resistance and gave such sage advice of making these introductions in the first place, is the very one I am forbidden to introduce. “Stick to your children; there’s no need to write about me,” Okay, I can honor that…mostly.
So with no further ado, here goes:
Boogie Down
Let me begin with my oldest. I’ll call him Boogie Down. A name to which, even at age eleven, still draws a happy reply. I know, I know, it’s a pet name that should be facing extinction, but his crib enclosed, high energy, spit inducing, dance sessions revealed a careless rhythm that required such a name. Bouncing to the beat of the Baby Genius DVD sure doesn’t’ seem over a decade ago. Please allow me to hold on to the name Boogie Down a few more months. Days? Hours?
My childhood started over with this guy. We rolled Hot Wheels cars. Together. We took tractor rides around our 46 acres in North Carolina. Together. We played Geo Trax trains. Together. We reenacted some of Star Wars’ greatest moments. Together. High-speed piggyback rides. Togeth…wait a minute, I did all the work on that one. Me and Boogie. Boogie and me. I was a first time Dad, a time that will generate good feelings in my soul forever.
Boogie’s first days at middle school a few short weeks ago gave me a feeling that I haven’t felt since the start of Kindergarten. A first-time bus rider, I wanted so desperately to pin the bus number to his shirt collar. But watching him order from the adult menu this past summer made one reality crystal clear. My firstborn is growing up. It was either the adult menu or the “men’s” sized shoes on his feet.
Our firstborn Boogie is a little naïve and perhaps a bit sheltered, but sixth grade, an iPhone and the school locker are changing him fast. Boogie’s aware that a couple of girls “like” him at school; he still thinks that’s pretty gross and I believe him. But there is something different about that nervous giggle when the topic is broached. Perhaps fodder for a future blog post. My wife does have a plan in place for the first unfortunate girl who dares place a call to our Boogie. That plan is definitely NOT fodder for a future post.
The Big Deal
When number two was born things were very different from the beginning. Due to exhaustion, my wife and I went from doting parents to hands-off custodians. His tumbles did not warrant running adults extending rescuing hands, a simple, “You’re ok buddy, get up.” That’s all we offered. Piggyback races around the house were greatly reduced this go around. Did I mention the fatigue factor? Okay, let me say I was rapidly approaching 40, stuff was slowing down. He cooked long, solitary meals in his Fisher-Price kitchen and fought protracted battles with his Star Wars guys.
All this individuality while sporting hand-me-downs. It may be reasonable to conclude this would add up to stereotypical middle child syndrome, but it hasn’t (yet). This confident, self-assured, at times cocky kid has earned his name, Big Deal. At 18 months, he proclaimed, “I Baby Ya-Ya.” As a parent, we never want to think of our child as strange, but if that’s not strange… Baby Ya-Ya? Where’d this come from? Was this some homage to Lady Gaga? We may never know.
While drilling numbers and phonics with big brother Boogie Down, Big Deal grabbed his toys and mimicked darting lasers and rumbling explosions, seemingly in his own world. At about four years, we sat on his bedroom floor. It was time to get moving on learning letter sounds; the ignoring and preoccupation must end. I began with the proven techniques used with this big brother. I fixed my lips, “Buh-buh-Bee…Duh-duh-Dee.” Big Deal politely listened and looked up at me. Making sure I had properly made a fool of myself, he proceeded to read the primer book from cover to cover. Surely he had memorized its contents. I reached for a thicker book, “Read this,” I said. He read it. I plucked an even thicker book, “Try this one.” He read it. I stopped short of the Holy Bible, partly afraid of being shown up, some of those names... Somehow Big Deal taught himself how to read, those moments of solitary play, he’d been listening in on his brother’s phonics lessons all along. Oh, no…what else had he heard? By Pre K he was scoffing at Jack and Annie’s adventures in that treehouse of magic. Our services were clearly not required. Things just seem to come easy for this one, the kid who’s picked first. This past summer’s learning to ride a bike experience has served to prove Big Deal’s mortality. It’s a good thing. I was beginning to sound silly with the “sometimes you have to work at things” speech.
Baby Dynamite
At great financial risk, my wife and I decided our household needed princess outfits, Barbie Dolls, and secret diaries. Boogie Down was down with that plan too. He wanted a sister. Big Deal was hoping for a little brother. We all crammed into that dark room for the sonogram. “Well,” the technician declared, “It’s another boy!” Boogie Down cried. He really wanted a sis. Momma cried too. Happiness? Hormones? Big Deal was plain old excited. Once more, things had gone his way. And I, though happy, fought back tears. How is this banana-sized grainy image on the screen going to eat once the milk runs out?
This was the toughest pregnancy yet. We’d heard our share of “he must have a full head of hair” comments, but there was more to this, my wife could feel it. Relief from this worry-filled, comfortless pregnancy would come early. Eight weeks early to be exact. This tiny bundle was anything but joyful. A pile of tubes and gauze pads lay underneath crosshatching medical tape, only bits of skin and bulging eyes confirmed there was a person there. A day later brought surgery. Then my wife and I held hands as we were given his diagnosis…Cystic Fibrosis. If you’re wondering how my wife escaped her hospital room only a day removed from a C-section, then, like me, you’re a guy. Moms know how she did it. Six weeks later, we were happily leaving the NICU with an incredible warrior buckled in his car seat and a list of daily (lifetime) treatments. Finally we were a family of five under one roof.
Baby Dynamite, as he is now commonly known, is anything but a sickly, lethargic boy. He is smart (mouthed), as energetic as a Tasmanian devil and strong as a bull. Now three, he cocks Nerf guns with ease, something his big brothers weren’t doing until twice that age. He is bossy and determined; sweet as an angel and mean as a snake. Baby Dynamite will keep the most embarrassing expressions to himself only to reach the middle of a crowded Target. There he tests out the possibilities. With two older brothers, one never can predict what will come out of his mouth. These days potty words attached to the word "face" seem to be his preference. However, he did tell a nurse the other day, “You so annoyding!” Not a potty word, true, however no less embarrassing.
Often when caring people hear of Baby Dynamite’s CF diagnosis they will say, “Oh, I’m so sorry!” I understand that they are coming from a caring place, but it’s like I tell our two older boys, “Yes, it’s tough and it’ll be hard, but why not us? I am glad Baby Dynamite is one of us; our loving family was made for this!
So there you have it, introductions complete. Now to get on with my journey as a teacher, author, and, of course, a Dad.
