September 11, 2012 at 10:47 pm , by Nick Shell
21 months.
Labor Day morning we drove 2 hours to Chattanooga to visit my dad’s parents. My grandfather was retiling the shower when we arrived.
All Jack could see was the backside of man in overalls, who was pounding something with a hammer, but he was sold.
Whoever this mystery man was, my son needed to met him.
I didn’t bother explaining that he was my “dada’s dada.” I just let him be enthralled.
We made our way into the living room and Jack barely gave my grandfather time to sit down before Jack was making him play.
As weird as this sounds, my son has never been exposed to a toy sword before. So after finding one in their toy stash, he kept flying the “airplane” all over my grandfather.
It’s pretty easy to get my son to think you’re cool- just be a grandfather.
I have no trouble understanding this attraction. Little boys are adventurous.
And who has seen more adventure than a Korean War veteran with a Purple Heart? Somehow Jack sensed this about my grandfather.
Jack loves grandfathers.
I’ve mentioned before that in some ways, no one seems to understand Jack better than my dad, who he calls Papa. Jack has always been obsessed with my dad.
When I say obsessed, I mean obsessed. Though we live 2 and a half hours from my parents, Jack randomly says “Papa” in the middle of playtime for no apparent reason. Except for maybe that he associates adventure with his Papa.
This past weekend we hung out with Jack’s friend Henry, his parents, and grandparents. There was the train ride with Thomas, then breakfast at First Watch, and lastly we decided to tour the pet store next door.
After exploring several of the aisles with me nonchalantly trailing behind him, Jack saw Henry’s grandfather around the corner.
He lifted his hands up to him and said in his Todfather voice: “Up-eh!”
From there, Henry’s grandfather carried Jack around the store, as Jack pointed to the direction his new chauffeur was to take him.
I guess that’s one of the things that grandfathers are known for in the mind of a toddler boy; getting carried around in the likeness of a parrot on the shoulder of a pirate.
After a few minutes, Henry’s grandfather brought Jack back and sort of whispered like he was telling me a secret:
“When it comes to grandpa’s, boys just seem to know.”
Two Saturday nights ago my wife and I turned on the TV in hopes of a catching a creepy episode of Dateline featuring yet another typical, captivating story where a seemingly normal husband or wife murdered their spouse and tried to cover it up. Instead, we happened to catch the very beginning of Wrestelmania 28, which for some random reason was airing on NBC. And we couldn’t turn it off. We were reeled in by the mini-documentary profiles of both The Rock and John Cena. Before the match began, we were already rooting for John Cena, dressed in his token jean shorts. Yes, professional wrestling is fake. Sorry. No, not every single move is choreographed, but the basics of each match are predetermined, as I assume the wrestlers practice with each other for hours before their televised event. Sure, certain parts of the physical wrestling are real, like slamming each other down on the stage. But if all those “punches” to the face were real, there would obviously be some instant red marks and/or blood to prove it. Why is it important that professional wrestling is fake? Because that’s what draws a crowd. People love exciting entertainment, even when they know it’s over the top and less than realistic. (Ever heard of a show on TLC called Here Comes Honey Boo Boo?) This concept was also part of the story lines to boxing movies like Cinderella Man and Rocky, where the fight planners and promoters acknowledged the need for not only an underdog the people would root for, but also the need for a good long fight. That’s not to say that Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear wasn’t exciting, but there’s only so many times fighters can bite off their opponent’s body parts before it hurts the integrity of the sport. Therefore, professional wrestling is fake. It’s much safer that way; not only for the well-being of the wrestlers, but also for the faithfulness of the spectators. My 21 month-old son is at least subconsciously aware of this fact, too. On a daily basis, we wrestle in our living room. And every weekend, at the park. He knows I won’t actually hurt him, yet he screams as I straddle him like a hungry lion tearing into a delicious zebra. All of my growling and barking and shouting “Jack, come back here!” as I chase him across the room has to be perceived to him like being in the middle of a WWE wrestling match. Even my toddler knows that wrestling is fake. But that doesn’t make it any less entertaining.
