When my wife drives the kids around town, she puts kiddie tunes in the CD player. They listen to storybook tales or children’s songs. The number of times you can listen to Frog and Toad Are Friends or Wheels on the Bus Go Round before you go out of your adult mind is limited. Severely limited if you are already crotchety and selfish, like me.

When I drive the kids around town, I turn on the radio and listen to music I like. It’s my vehicle, so why shouldn’t I get first choice? Unfortunately, first choice is not always the final choice. When my kids call for a story or a kid song, I have to give in. One: I love them and want them to be happy. Two: I don’t want to hear the whining and nagging for the next hour. Three: I can turn the volume up in the back and down in the front so I can only barely hear it. And turning up the front AC or heat helps to drown it out.

A few days ago, though, we had a breakthrough. I turned on the radio and started surfing through the stations. My oldest son, 6 years old, said, “Turn on some rock and roll, dad.” Hell yeah! That’s my boy!

I tuned in to the local classic rock station and we rocked down the road to the grocery store. We heard The Eagles, Pat Benatar, Golden Earring, and other rockers from the 70s and 80s. And both boys were happy. Dad was happy, too.

This happened again today. “Turn on some rock and roll, dad.” So the first time wasn’t a fluke. It’s a pattern. At one point during our drive today, when a commercial was on the classic rock station, I went up the dial and stopped on a country station that was playing a song I liked. We listened for few seconds, and then my son requested I tune back to the rock and roll. Yes, he actually says, “rock and roll.” That is so cool to hear from a 6 year old.

Even the 2 year old was apparently fine with the rock and roll, because he made not a sound in protest.

But when I sang along with one of the songs (I think it was “One Thing Leads to Another” by The Fixx), I was told, “Dad, don’t sing. Turn up the radio.”

Okay, son. It’s a deal. I’ll not sing, and I’ll turn up the rock and roll.

Bullgrit
bullgrit@totalbullgrit.com

My oldest son (age 6) has just started tee-ball practice. (That’s baseball for kids who aren’t old enough to pitch or hit off a pitch.) We’ve been to two practices, and games will start in a couple weeks. There’s 15 kids on his team, 3 of them girls. I expected more girls. He played soccer a couple years ago (at age 4) and his team was 5 boys and 5 girls.

I’ve never been a baseball fan. It’s really a boring sport to me. Two hours of game for excitement that can be shown in a two-minute highlight film. But I played little league, and I threw a ball around with my dad when I was young.

Anyway, when we signed him up for this league, at his request, it got me interested in my old ball and glove. I contacted my dad and asked him to find my old stuff from my little league days. He found the ball and glove, and I got them the next time I was in my hometown.

My son quickly took a liking to my old glove. It’s dark, well worn, and very loose in the fold. He likes it better than the glove we specifically bought for him, and he wants to use it in his practice and games. This is a wonderfully sweet thing, and it’s a terribly frightening thing. I love that he wants to use my old glove — I mean, that’s a made-for-TV-movie scenario, right there. But I fear it will fall apart, get lost, or something. It’s very sentimental to me; it’s a treasured item from my youth.

But I’m slowly massaging my sentimental attachment to allow for more memories to be added to it. My son can add his own memories to my 30+ year-old glove. Already, a couple of other tee-ball dads have commented on the old glove, in a good way. All the other kids have brand new gloves, bright and stiff.

Today I got out a pen to write my son’s name in the glove. I can still see my own name written in two spots, and I can even, just barely, make out my old address, too. The writing is faded, and in my mom’s handwriting. I wrote my son’s name on a new spot on the glove, in permanent marker. That makes it official.

It actually feels pretty cool. Although I still have a bit of an anxious knot in my stomach at the thought of something happening to it. I think I could handle it tearing or falling apart, but I so strongly hope he doesn’t put it down somewhere and forget it. It would break my heart to loose it. But I should just suck it up and get over it. With writing his name in it, I’m passing it on now. It’s not mine anymore, it’s his. With any luck, 30-some years from now, he’ll call me on the phone and ask me to find his old ball glove. And he’ll pick it up the next time he visits.

Bullgrit