SUBURBAN MAN: Dash
The definition of “older” father has changed dramatically over the last few decades. At least that’s what I told myself when we had our youngest son. I was 39 at the time, and was more or less handling the challenge of two boys pretty successfully. I figured—what the heck. What’s one more? We have all the clothes already. We know what we’re doing. I’m still pretty healthy. By all means, bring it on.
Whoops.
Up until his first birthday I was still pretty sure I could handle it. I had seen wild children in the mall and at neighborhood and family gatherings. But those children obviously weren’t supervised well enough by their parents. My boys are pretty well behaved, and I believed it was due to my wife’s caring, nurturing, and disciplined home.
Whoops again.
Our youngest son, who we’ve nicknamed “Dash” after the character in the movie “The Incredibles” never learned how to walk. His first step was taken at full speed. The scientists from General Motors have actually moved into our home to study how anything can go from 0-60 mph in one second. I’m awaiting their diagnostic report. It would be one thing if I was younger. There was a time when I could have chased down this child without pulling a hamstring or groin, or throwing out my back lunging for one of his nifty fake-out moves. Granted, it was at least twenty years ago, but at least I know it was possible at one time. My two older boys (10 & 7) can’t catch him. My wife (younger than me) can’t catch him. The neighborhood dogs can’t catch him.
The following is a true story. My aunt was having a backyard barbeque. Dash went into the house for a moment. What could go wrong? The house was full of something like twenty family members. Plus, there were enough toys inside to occupy a normal child for an entire afternoon. I didn’t think anything of it.
Suddenly a strange woman walked into the backyard with a 2-year-old in her arms. He looked remarkably similar to my son Dash. My aunt didn’t even know the lady…because she lived all the way down the street. Apparently Dash had run into the house, past a houseful of unsuspecting relatives, out the front door, and down the street without anyone noticing. We were lucky that this woman saw what direction he came from, because she grabbed him (probably with some sort of a cheetah-capturing device) and rang doorbells until she found the right house. Total elapsed time? 5 minutes.
One more true story before I go to rehab for my rotator cuff injury. On top of setting child speed records, Dash can unsnap his own car seatbelt. How did I discover this you ask? Well, it happened on a side street one day not too far from our home. I was driving when I heard someone jostling the spare change compartment. That’s odd, I thought. Dash is the only other person in the car with me and he’s firmly seat-belted more than three feet away from the spare change compartment. When I turned around, he was there. He had a big grin on his face and a dime in his hand. I did the best I could to avoid cardiac arrest, pulled the car over to the curb, and got out so that I could crawl into the backseat. In the time it took me to do that, he jumped into the front seat, and inserted the dime into my CD player. Total damage: $600. Total elapsed time? One second.
So now that I’ve been an older father for 3 years, what are my conclusions? Has it been just like I thought it would be—no big deal? Um…well I was right about one thing—we didn’t have to buy any new clothing.
As for the other assumptions? The data is inconclusive. This child isn’t a representative sample. A professional athlete would have a hard time keeping up with him. It’s not just because I’m old…and out of shape…and slow…and really really tired.
At least that’s what I tell myself as the trainers treat my pulled hamstring.
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