We got a new bicycle for Calfgrit5; he’d outgrown his first bike. I was putting the bike together, with CG5’s “help,” when he started spinning one of the wheels. As the wheel spun, he started to put his finger into the spokes.

“No,” I said, “don’t do that.”

He stopped. But then a few seconds later, he started to do it again.

“No!” I said. “You could really hurt your finger.”

“How?” he asked.

“Your finger,” I explained, “will get caught in the spokes, and broken.”

I could tell by the look on his face that he wasn’t really getting the concept. His mother broke her toe a while back, and from his point of view, it was nothing really bad.

I said, “Go out into the yard and find a stick to bring to me.”

He ran out into the yard, and after a minute, came back with a long, thin stick.

“Watch what happens,” I said.

I spun the wheel real fast, then slowly lowered the stick down into the spokes near the fork. Crunch! The stick snapped. A piece went flying off, and another piece dangled from the main length.

“See?” I said.

His face scrunched up in horror, and he burst out in tears. He bawled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked with concern.

He cried out, “Now I’m going to have a nightmare.”

His mother came into the garage and noticed her baby crying. When she asked what happened, CG5 said, “Daddy told me I’m going to break my finger. And he showed me with the stick. Now I’m going to have a nightmare.”

He was truly upset. I had no idea the demonstration would affect him so. But, after he calmed down, he didn’t try sticking his finger into a spinning wheel again. And that night he apparently didn’t have a nightmare. So maybe it wasn’t a horrible thing to show a child, after all.

Bullgrit

Last night, Calfgrit9 wanted some time to play alone in his room. So Calfgrit5 and I played together. We had a lengthy sword fight with our foam swords (bought from the Lego store in Downtown Disney). Then he rode on my back as a knight on his horse. This went on for 30 to 45 minutes until I needed to answer the phone.

While I was on the phone, CG5 went to his room to play with his Legos and Lincoln Logs. After a while, I gave the five-minute warning for bath time. The five minutes passed quickly, and he wasn’t ready to stop playing when I started his bath water.

He got right pissed when I turned on the stern-daddy voice, “It’s time for bath. You’ve had plenty of time to play, and you can play some more after bath if you don’t take too long with this.”

“Baths are stupid,” he said.

“Now, we don’t use that word,” I said.

“I don’t want a bath. I haven’t had time to build anything,” he argued.

“If you don’t come and get in the bath right now,” I warned, “you won’t have time to play after. And if you’re going to be bad, we won’t read a book before bed. You’ll just go straight to bed.”

“Nooooo!” he shouted in agony. (No book before bed is a sad punishment in this house.)

“Come on!” I raised my voice.

He stomped into the bathroom, and started taking off his clothes.

“You’re a bad daddy,” he said. “You’re the worst daddy, ever!”

I got him into the bath tub, and since he refused to wash himself, I had to soap him up and rinse him off, myself. He pouted and whined the whole time. He reiterated and confirmed my bad daddiness. I was “the worst daddy ever in a million years.”

When he was clean, I had to threaten the no book before bed punishment again to get him to get out of the water. As I dried him off, he asked, “Will you build a Lincoln Log house for me?”

“Do bad daddies build Lincoln Log houses?” I asked.

He looked at me with the towel draped over his head, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Mm hmm,” I grunted. “Can you put on your pajamas without an argument?”

“Sure,” he said. He was suddenly a totally different child.

I built a Lincoln Log house with him before he got in bed. I don’t know if I’m a bad daddy, a good daddy, or just a sucker.

Bullgrit

This weekend, while Calfgrit5 was in his room taking his nap after lunch, I went into the office to fiddle around. While there, I saw out the front window, Calfgrit9 was sitting in the grass of the front yard.

His zip-up sweater was off and lying in a pile on the grass next to him, a plastic hoe (that he uses as a sword and a rifle) was in the grass on the other side of him, and he had some small toy in his hand. He was just sitting there, sort of staring off into space. He’d shift or move occasionally, but he seemed deep in thought more than playing with his toy.

I watched him for a minute or two, wondering what he was thinking. I got a little worried; I thought maybe there was something troubling on his mind. So I left the office and went downstairs to put on my shoes to go outside.

I walked up to him, “Hey buddy.”

“Hey Dad.”

I plopped down in the grass in front of him. “Whatcha thinking about?”

He didn’t hesitate, but stated, “About how some animals are pretty smart. They make their own homes, they form groups, they communicate. It’s like they’re as smart as we are.”

“Yeah,” I said. I totally didn’t expect that to be his thoughts. Here I was, worrying that he was bothered by something, and really he was just thinking intelligent concepts.

We chatted about animal reasoning and instincts for a few minutes, and then he wanted to show me an ant mound he had found over in the common area next to our lot. He had experimented with the ants by covering the exit holes with leaves and rocks, to see how they dealt with it, how they’d work around the obstacles.

After showing me his experiment, we walked around to the back yard, and our conversation wandered to what we’d do in the yard when the weather warmed up with spring.

I was relieved that he hadn’t been sitting in the yard fretting about something. I was rather impressed that he could just sit peacefully and think. That’s something I like to do sometimes. It’s something that I really don’t get a chance to do very often, anymore. Maybe next time I won’t disturb him.

Bullgrit

I mentioned on Wednesday how our boys were up sick early Wednesday morning. Well, they both stayed sick all day Wednesday. Thursday, they were still pathetic with fever, just sleeping all day. Friday, Calfgirt5 was better, but Calfgrit9 was still out of it. He was maintaining a 102-104 fever, lowering occasionally, with Motrin, to around 100.

Friday, he was taken to the pediatrician. They tested him, but he had no flu or strep. Because he wasn’t eating or drinking much [at all], the doctor feared he was becoming dehydrated. She said if he didn’t “round the corner” by Saturday, to take him to the hospital children’s emergency department so they could set him up with fluids by IV.

Saturday morning, CG9 was no better. He still had a 103 temperature, and still didn’t want to eat or drink anything — he just wanted to be left alone to sleep. We called his doc again, and she directed us to take him to the hospital.

We dropped his little brother off with their grandmother, and we headed for the main county hospital. We arrived at about 11:00, and handled the paperwork, went through triage, and then waited with a pager (like at a restaurant). While waiting in the waiting room, we managed to get him to eat a couple of crackers and take a few sips of water, but he was just lethargic. He did laugh a few times at watching Ice Age on the TV mounted overhead. (This was the children’s emergency department.)

Eventually we got called back to the rooms. The children’s emergency department is very different than the normal, adult version. With all the colors, shapes, and pictures, it looked more like an elementary school (with lots of computers and strange gizmos all around).

The nurses and doctor got us all settled in, and got CG9 set up with an IV drip — he was very brave about it all. (Although having the TV in the room tuned to Cartoon Network helped keep him distracted like a zombie staring at a brain in a jar.) We were going to be there for a while. And we were.

The IV drip finished after 3:30, and CG9 was discharged at about 4:00. We’d been at the hospital for five hours, total. Not exactly how one wants to spend a Saturday.

But after the IV fluids were in his system, CG9 said he wanted a hot dog. Great! He hadn’t eaten anything for three and a half days. We gave him a hot dog.

The rest of Saturday, and all day Sunday, per the doctor’s orders, we kept him drinking water and Gatorade to keep him fully hydrated. His fever went away, his energy came back, and he’ll be going to school this morning. His parents are happy to have him well, again. (And are happy to get him out of the house, back in school, for a few hours each day, again.)

Bullgrit