The Home Front: The Undiscovered Con-artist.

“I have a lot of Nature. IN MY PANTS!”

Now, according to the father’s handbook, Ed. 1999*, such a pronouncement should have earned a mild rebuke to a slap upside the head according to seventeen different variables. I don’t think that calling out “NOT IN YOUR PANTS! YOU’RE KILLING NATURE!” is counted as a valid response. When he laughed maniacally and I joined him, we had several of those happy, shiny families in the parking lot taking wild detours around us. He asked to stop at Krispy Kreme, I said no- he was on enough of a natural high, and I did not feel like fighting him for donuts after the Homer Donut Incident.

We had a good breakfast, all told. He even ordered eggs… which should really have tipped me off. He never orders eggs unless he’s planning something. He’s a cunning little munchkin sometimes. Leaving the restaurant, we went up the escalator to check on movie times. “How about we catch the Mummy 3?” I asked. No thank you, he replied, I really just want to go home. He answered this as we were coincidentally passing Game Planet- the video game store. The little bugger had me.

I am addicted to video games. We own every console, including an old Gamecube without controllers. We own TWO of a couple of them, actually. It’s a vice. I realized then that he had played me until we were there… until he could casually suggest we go in and ‘take a look’.

Ah, yes, ‘a look’. Every ‘look’ we take in there ends up with two or three games being added to our collection: true to form, he snagged me by walking with me past the Xbox display and then made a break for the Nintendo DS games. He even knew to come up to me with a game and a big smile while I was looking at a couple of titles and not a minute before. The conversation that ensued can be summarized as:

“Daaaad…” “…son, you just got a new game.” “But this is Digimon!” “I thought you liked Pokemon?” “Exactly! I don’t have this one!”

Faultless man logic. He got his game, I picked up Conan and Lair and we exited before I gave in and bought Rock Band as well… mostly because I retained enough clarity of mind to realize what Ann would do to me if I bought our son a game that came with a guitar, microphone and drum set when she has a deadline looming. The next day would prove me right… but I get ahead of myself.

Out we go… mostly. We stopped by Walmart to do guy shopping: drinks, drinks, drinks, drinks and bananas. I kid you not, we had six different kinds of drinks (including Orangeina, which I had been craving since watching Transporter) and a bunch of bananas in our cart.

As we are going down the winding road to exit the mall, dodging traffic incoming from the left hell bent on turning right and old Fords full with parents screaming at their kids over their shoulders, he looks up at the movie theater’s listing and states, matter-of-factly, “oh, we should have gone to see the Mummy. I want to see that.” He’s lucky I needed both hands on the wheel at that point.

We get home and like good boys we both rip open our new toys, let the dog in to chase the cats and merrily ignore the three of them as they run up and down the stairs and in and out of the yard. He settles in on the couch, we order pizza (which I don’t really like, but it would be inconceivable to interrupt the Game Opening Ritual to cook, for god’s sake) and I pop in Conan. Fifteen minutes or so into the game, I am scrambling to change the channel and looking for the game box to look at the rating, Alek’s looking up confused and the cats and dog are still playing tag. Apparently Conan is rated M, probably due to the regular appearance (as I would find out when I started the game up again late that night) of scantily clad women that cry ‘oh, what happened to my clothes!’ or ‘crush me with your barbarian love!’ throughout the game.

I will say in my own defense, that reading boxes falls under the ‘do not read manuals’ proviso of being a guy.

We caught a few cartoon and Animal Planet shows when we were both bored of gaming (it does happen, especially when one has to settle for PG rated games while the kid’s awake) and then it was bath time. “Alek, go upstairs and take a shower, Boo-Boo.”

“But I’m stinky!”

“…that’s WHY you need to take a shower! You’re making the cats cry and run away!” At which point, of course, he squealed with glee and stomped after the cats that had just settled in Ann’s office. I swear to god the poor things will have a cardiac condition soon at this rate. I chased HIM up the stairs and checked my mail… and we went through the usual bath time routine of him streaking from his room to the linens closet and then to the bathroom singing at the top of his voice.

A couple hours later, he was in bed, I was playing Conan and the cat was complaining about the dog being inside. Put the dog out, hit the cat with a blast of compressed air to shut him up and resumed my game. Before I knew it, it was three in the morning, I had had my fill of carnage, blood lust and pulp-era-maidens in distress and I scrambled to bed to pass out.

Tally: three new video games, one public disturbance, pizza for lunch and pastries for dinner, two sugar highs, one close call with inappropriate gaming material, a four pack of Orangeina and three beers consumed. Cats traumatized, dog pissy and living room a mess. And we still had Sunday!

Sunday was relatively tame, really. My brother invited us along to meet his fiancee’s parents. I had been considering how to make our excuses while Alek and I had a late breakfast, when my mother called. They would pick us up at a quarter to three, she said, since we did not know the way to my brother’s place. Damn. That woman is psychic sometimes. Which makes me wonder if she just PRETENDS not to hear half the stuff I say when I try to talk to her.

We arrived easily enough. My future sister-in-law is Cuban, her parents have a nifty accent… or her mother does. Her father said sixteen words in the four hours we were there: “Si.” “No, sigo el beisbol.” “Si.” “No.” “Si”. “Mmhmm.” “Asi era Rebeka.” “Asi es.” “No, gracias.” Yes, I counted: it was a rare occurrance for him to open his mouth. His wife had no such compunctions- which was amusing as hell to watch, considering my parents are pretty much the same way.

The wives chattered at each other non stop, my dad smiled while having coffee and Rebeka’s father spent a good hour of his time there trying to get my brother’s cat to stop rubbing against him. Rebeka and my brother got a few words in edgewise, her brother nodded and looked generally placid as only a 6’2 300 lbs linebacker can look…

And Alek sung throughout most of the afternoon, when he was not strumming the guitar or going wild on the drum set. Did I mention my brother *does* have the game, Rock Band?

Steve Tyler, look out for Alek.

Our son adores my brother. They are both easy going, my brother actually has fun playing mock Pokemon battles with Alek and they get along famously when they’re together. Which (a) makes me snicker at my brother’s consistent denial of wanting children of his own and (b) makes me wonder if our son will turn into my brother, as my mother once predicted. Given that Alek has stated that he wants to visit JJ more often and thinks my brother’s plan of living at home till he’s 28 is a stroke of brilliance… well. Let’s just say I’m glad I got along well with my brother, growing up.

Aside: JJ, Rebeka, Alek and my mother were off on vacation during one of the times neither Ann nor I could get away. Alek grabbed JJ’s hand and wandered ahead of the women. He turned up to my brother and asked, “uncle Juan. Do you understand women?” My brother looked down at him, deadpan, and answered, “no, Alek. No one ever does.” Our son nodded sagely and returned to their conversation about whether fire or water Pokemon were cooler.

We returned home, skipped out briefly for dinner a little later, and settled in pretty early for both of us, before midnight. As I settled in at my desk, happy that our son was settled, safe and sound… he ran out of his room in his jammy pants, trying to cuddle a cat he’d surprised napping in his bed and screaming ‘let me hug you, stinky cat!’

Oh, the joys of parenthood.

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*Yes. Kids DO come with a manual, but it’s a well kept secret. New dads usually toss them at the hospital (…the manuals, not the kids, though mistakes sometimes happen), since everyone knows men do not need manuals. I kept mine because I was out of reading material at the hospital and it provided a break from the romantic comedy movie marathon Ann and I enjoyed when she delivered Alek.

Oh, Jon Stewart, who knew you could make such an excellent romantic lead? Sniff.