December, 2014
“How long’s a minute?” Rowan asks me over lunch. I see that he has torn through the board games while I made sandwiches, and he’s distributed monopoly money, playing cards, chess pieces, everything, in a trail from the closet to the kitchen table. Now he’s sitting, finally, and he clutches a little plastic hourglass in his hand and holds it forth, the stitches in his chin framing his big, toothy smile. “What’s this?”
We usually don’t allow him to have toys at the table, but at least he’s sitting still. Also, we’re exhausted. “You need to put that all back in the closet when you’re done with lunch,” my wife tells him, eyeing the latest mess. Around us, Rowan’s imagination stretches across the floor from the front door to the back porch, so many legos and books that we can hardly walk.
“What’s this?” he asks again, peering into the hourglass as the sand flows through the tight plastic funnel.
“That’s an hourglass,” I tell him.
“No,” he replies, “Not an hour.”
He is correct. In the broken sentences of a 3-year-old, he explains to me that it only takes a minute for the sand to traverse from one side of the little plastic tube to the other.
“It’s still called an hourglass, though,” I tell him, though I’m not actually sure if that’s true. The minutes pass like hours and we don’t know what to do.
After lunch, Rowan cleans up. Then he builds a fort with the couch cushions, and he knocks over a potted plant in the front hall. “Find something else to play with,” my wife tells him.
He attempts to ride his bike up the stairs.
He flips the kitchen chairs on their sides to build a wall.
He jumps from the back of the couch to the mantle and hits his head, and he howls like a wild animal.
We give him some ice for his head, but he eats it and almost chokes.
He turns on every sink in the house and runs around with his pants off.
We redress him and send him outside, and he constructs a trap out of sticks on the front steps to try to capture Santa.
“Santa already came on Sunday,” I try to reason with him. He doesn’t come back for one year.
“How long’s a year?” Rowan asks.
I check my watch, and it’s only been 20 minutes since lunch.
I start to answer him, but he’s already digging for grubs in the front flowerbed, churning up last years’ bulbs with a plastic shovel.
He tries to jam his shovel into the heat pump next to the house.
He rides his bike into a tree on purpose.
He rushes around back to get a garden hose, but he trips and skins his knee.
Part of his problem is simple physics. Little boys grow fast, but it comes in fits and starts, and it’s not always proportionate. His short legs are quick, but his head and feet seem huge by comparison. He leans forward and runs full speed through the kitchen, but his legs can’t keep up, so he falls forward and hits his face on the corner of the wall.
“It’s like trying to parent an explosion,” my wife observes, trying to see how bad it is this time through the blood and dirt.
Part of his problem is hard-wired. The security guard at the entrance to the Emergency Room welcomes us back for our second trip this week: “Hi, Rowan.”
Shannon fills out paperwork at the front desk, and I try to manage our son who is still on the hunt for trouble. It required five stitches to sew his chin last week, and I’m guessing it will take at least five more in his forehead this time. I chase him through the waiting room, “Perhaps now would be an OK time not to jump on the couch, Rowan.”
When we return home, Rowan is finally asleep in the back seat, fresh stitches in his forehead. I carry him through the darkness. He’s limp and warm in my arms, momentarily defused. At the threshold of his room, I trip on some kind of trap he built earlier in the day, and I almost drop him.
My wife takes a knee to inspect the trap, like a Vietnam War film. This time, it appears he used pillows, scissors, a Godzilla action figure, and he wrapped it all together with leftover Christmas ribbon.
Shannon clears the trap, a professional by now, but still none of this is making sense to her.
“Why does he keep doing this?” She whispers as we tuck him in, but her voice is tense, bewildered.
“He’s dynamite,” I tell my wife. “This is how he learns.”
Grains of powder in an hourglass of crash and burns.
Whichever you prefer - the racing, the folding, or the general carousing - The Paranormal will go LIVE on Saturday 10/19 at 4 PM right on the lipsticked kisser. That does not mean, however, that you should show up at 3:45, half-drunk, shirtless, and try to get your number and get to the start line whilst referring to your semi-nudity as a "costume." No indeed, Veteran Piece of Advice #2 - get there EARLY, and then do all of those other things, and you'll fit right in.
Which, as water in a river, or pee in a costume, or any one thing which naturally brings you to another thing, brings me to Veteran Piece of Advice #5: Stay the night. It's like Prom. There's free camping, and plenty of cops on Earlysville road who will ruin your night far worse than Gordon Wadsworth's frenetic energy possibly ever could. So just be tolerant. Sip your cocktail, nod here and there, and allow him to vomit enthusiasm right into your very soul. You will emerge, wet, but a better person. 
