December 18, 2011 at 7:34 am , by Nick Shell

13 months.

For the past five months, while driving my son home each day, he has always dozed off to the sounds of Weezer or The Red Hot Chili Peppers. I have depended on him getting that nap every day. But over the last week, that has changed.

I think it’s because of a number of things. It’s now dark when I pick him up from KinderCare, so I imagine it makes it more difficult for him to fall asleep. Plus he’s transitioning into the toddler class now. He doesn’t want to drink formula anymore, just solid foods and water.

All these changes at once are surely effecting his psyche.

So now, on the drive home each day, he cries and screams as loud as he can. There is only one remedy.

In an act which is the equivalent to me standing on the tips of my toes, I reach back to his rear-facing car seat and use my pointer and middle fingers to lightly tap the top of his head and forehead. He instantly stops wailing; becoming silent.

After my entire arm begins falling asleep, I take my hand away to let the blood start flowing again. It typically takes about 8 seconds for him to realize what has happened and then he’s back to screaming.

I can’t help but laugh. I mean, it’s pretty hilarious that my son cries as hard as he can until I start tapping the top of his head again. It’s funny how something that stupid can solve the problem; and that it’s the only way to solve the problem.

Yes, it’s ridiculous. But it’s also pretty humbling.

Though I continually am aware of how unworthy and unqualified I am to give life to another human being and soul, and to raise him on top of that, it’s little things like this that begin to convince me otherwise.

Maybe in some capacity I actually am chosen to do this job. Even if I don’t believe in myself as a dad, God evidently does.

After all, just the presence of the tips of two of my fingers dancing along to the drum beat of whatever rock song is playing through the stereo speakers is all he needs.

Literally, that’s all he needs. Every once in a while he’ll reach up and grab onto my pinky, as to hold my hand, but only for a few seconds. Then he lets go.

I know him. That’s just our shared style of father and son bonding. If he’s going to hold someone’s hand, it’s going to be Mommy’s.

Apparently, I am helping him cope with being afraid of the dark by him feeling my constant movement, as to scare the ghosts and monsters away.

September 11, 2011 at 5:27 pm , by Nick Shell

Nine months.

I’ve made mention before that one of my many weaknesses is that I’m horrible/inexperienced when it comes to anything mechanical. My deficiencies in this department aren’t for a lack of interest or a lack of trying, though. A couple of weeks ago I attempted to change the back tire on my mountain bike, since the tube in the tire exploded from the summer heat.

Fast forward a few paragraphs into this story and it turns out I went to the bike repair shop and was told that the cost of repairing the bike would be more than the cost of the bike itself. I evidently am that bad at fixing even the simplest of things!

Fortunately, the girl at the repair shop was wrong and they were able to fix what I messed up for only $27. (It would have only cost me $10 to let them repair the flat tire in the first place.)

My son, Jack, on the other hand, will most likely not suffer from his old man’s bad luck with understanding mechanics. He currently is sort of obsessed with trying to figure out how mechanical stuff works. Jack loves taking things apart.

I can just tell already his brain is working in ways that mine never has.

Another thing about Jack that I can’t help but be aware of is that he will likely end up being an athlete; something I tried to be a few times as a kid, then eventually turned to art, music, and writing- activities that were more my speed. Even today, the physical activities I involve myself with, mainly running and mountain biking, are noncompetitive hobbies.

But Jack is simply built like an athlete. He’s a tank. He’s a 1940′s wrestler.

A few weeks ago at his 9 month check-up, we learned that he is in the 90th percentile for height and 75th for weight. Maybe as he gets older he’ll end up adopting the skinny, bow-legged Italian body style that his dad had. However, I think he will grow up to be the opposite: a tall, large-framed, coordinated boy who is picked first on teams in gym class.

It’s safe to say I’ll eventually become a sports fan and learn a lot more about doing home repairs, thanks to my son.

How did this athletically-built, mechanically-minded boy come from me? All I can say is that it figures. I’m still laughing at the irony that a fair complected, blue eyed kid could ever be the offspring of dark-featured, olive complected parents like his mom and me.

I wonder in what other ways Jack will be the opposite of me . . . I’m sure he’ll be a whiz in math and science.