They Call Me Wheels

As November approached, we began making preparations for Josh’s 6th birthday, which fell on the 23rd of the month. For me, my 6th birthday was the first one I could actually recall even to this day, so I regarded the planning for this event with a special interest. Elizabeth and I are now openly sharing the same bedroom, and so far that has not caused any dire problems. In fact it was Josh that first discovered us in our sinful slumber; we were still trying to ease the kids into the idea of our relationship, and for much of September and October I joined Elizabeth only after both boys were asleep, and then return back to my couch in the wee hours of the morning. All of that changed one night at around 1 am, long after we had drifted off. We awoke to find Josh standing in the open bedroom doorway. Elizabeth and I shot terrified, sleepy glances to one another, but Josh, more preoccupied with his nightmare, just shuffled his feet in the doorway, unconcerned with the scene before him. Later, after Josh had been safely tucked in, and Elizabeth climbed back into bed, I asked, “Cat’s out of the bag, huh?” She lay back against the pillow, more at ease than I had expected. “To tell you the truth, he has probably known about this for weeks. You know how he’s got to be on top of just about everything that happens in this house anyhow – why should this be any different?” This was one of the most interesting things I had come to learn about Josh. For a five year old, he was unusually attentive to everything going on in the house. I recall baseball cards and comic books; I certainly don’t recall keeping abreast of my parent’s coming and goings. Josh, on the other hand, pays studious attention, often interrupting our conversations to voice concern over a grown up comment that he can’t quite grasp (“What do you mean, ‘you’re dead if you don’t get there on time’? You’re not really going to die are you?”). He notices any physical change, no matter how subtle or insignificant, such as a new brand of Caesar dressing, or a boring new vase. I remember proudly installing a key lock from Home Depot on a trap door, only to find that within ten minutes Josh had not only discovered the lock, but had exerted enough force in testing its effectiveness that he tore the whole door off it’s hinges. Josh’s midnight discovery had in many ways propelled us forward. We would, over the next weeks, discuss our romance more directly with Josh and Ben. Still, as I lay awake that late October night, I couldn’t help but wonder how this would all affect Josh; was his cool outward reaction merely a mask? Was he really screaming on the inside? Would the sight of me sleeping next to his mother etch an indelible and horrifying image that would haunt him always? I was answered only by the mechanical clanking of the furnace kicking on. The next morning, it’s Saturday. I not only have Josh down at the Elementary school for his last day of soccer, I’ve got Ben in tow as well. Elizabeth ducked out to run a quick couple of errands. Josh is busy playing soccer so it’s just me and Ben. I have a junior size soccer ball that I’m trying to keep him occupied with, and so far it’s working. That is until he spots the playscape, about 50 yards away. Without a word he’s off like a flash, as fast as his little legs will carry him. “Ben. B-Ben!” I’m trying not raise my voice. “Ben! Stop! BEN!” It’s no use – he doesn’t even turn around. I can only see the back of his curly hair bouncing as he totters along, but I know the expression on his face. It’s that wide, open-toothed grin he always gets when he’s running away on purpose. I look around – no parents nearby. Probably a good thing - I don’t want anyone to think there’s any cause for alarm. I can catch him, I think. I start off, with my urgent hopping-through-the-grass motion. I’m not exactly gaining ground on him. The playscape is of the multi-leveled variety on a bed of wood chips. It has a couple of low slides and other innocuous goodies, but it also has some dangerous looking poles and ladders, as well as monkey bars, any of which would be sure disaster for the little 2 and a half year old daredevil trying them out for the first time. I’m trying to push and yell at the same time, but my voice is cracking like an adolescent’s. I sound like the hysterical principal in Ferris Bueller “Ben! Ben stop!” I’m getting close, but my heart sinks when I realize that the playscape area is separated from the grass of the field by wooden railroad ties that are about 6 inches high. Might as well be six feet high. I’m starting to get nervous; Ben has reached the playscape structure, but hasn’t gone up anything yet. He now turns and looks back – yep, I knew it – that damn grin. His freckles gleam at me mockingly in the bright 10 am sunlight. I finally reach the edge of the playscape, panting. “Ben, stay off that! Come on!” He doesn’t look like he has any intention of obeying as he turns, still grinning and starts to grab a high rung of the ladder he’s holding. There is no way he’ll ever be able to climb it without risk of serious injury. Aside from about a half a dozen other kids, there are no adults in the vicinity. Jesus, where are all the do-gooders when I really need them? They can’t let me eat a lousy bagel without asking me if everything’s alright, but when my 2 year old is about to break his neck on an inaccessible playscape they’re nowhere to be found. “Ben, you get over here this instant!” God, listen to me. Just then Ben’s attention is caught by something off in the distance. He seems to be looking behind me onto the field. “Bop!” he cries and lets go of the ladder and runs back in my direction, and then passes me right by, running back onto the field. I muscle my chair around so I can see what’s diverted his attention. “Boppy!” he happily exclaims, as I turn to see his grandfather, Rob’s father, approaching in the distance. He’s come to watch the practice. “Whew” I exclaim quietly wiping my brow. “That was close. Thank God for Boppy!” But to myself I wonder That was close alright. What the Hell would you have done? “There’s no way you’re ever going to control them physically,” Elizabeth says when she returns. “just imagine what they’ll be like when they’re older. It’s only going to get worse.” Damn if she hasn’t already thought this all through, probably months ago. “You’re going to have to control them in other ways, through words and carefully planned consequences to their actions. You’ve got to be one step ahead.” As she looks at me I can almost detect sympathy in her soft green eyes. “It’s not going to be easy.”