Dirty Rockin’ Egg

The last time that my wife and I were on time to any kind of appointment was almost 5 years ago, before we had kids. It doesn’t seem to matter how hard we try or how early we attempt to leave the house, something always happens to slow us down. Someone needs a snack before we leave and then gets it all over himself, someone needs a chocolate milk before we leave and then gets it all over himself, someone needs to go pee before we leave and then gets it all over himself... you get the picture. That ‘someone’ is David or Graham, and occasionally me.

Easter Sunday was no different. We were a few minutes behind our scheduled departure time for the short drive to my In-Laws’ house where we planned to hunt Easter Eggs. In an attempt to get the boys to hurry up I used the old turn-it-into-a-competition trick and told them that “The last one in the car is a dirty rotten egg!” David and Graham bolted for the door. Now, I had intended that this would be a competition for the two of them, but they decided that it was for all four of us, which is totally unfair because I have to buckle Graham into his seat and that made me the last one in the car.
“You’re a dirty rockin’ egg, Dad!” yelled Graham. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so bad to be the dirty rockin’ egg. Candis thought that Graham was mispronouncing ‘rotten’ but I’m convinced that he really does think that I’m rockin’.

My Father-In-Law and I were put in charge of hiding the eggs in the expansive back yard, which turned out to be a mistake because neither of us counted the number of eggs that we’d hidden or remembered exactly where they all were. Apparently these are things that are important, because it’s difficult to ensure that you’ve retrieved all the eggs without knowing those two facts. I readied myself to play the role of referee and hoped that I wouldn’t have to call any Technical Fouls while David and Graham each took a basket and commenced Operation Eggs Traction. (Extraction - get it? I came up with that one all by myself!) *PATS SELF ON BACK* The boys would routinely spot an egg on the far side of the yard and sprint past 5 or 6 easily visible eggs to get to it. Aside from the fact that these two kids apparently couldn’t find an egg if it was screaming their name, the game went smoothly. They played fair and even showed each other where stashes of eggs were hidden so that they could both go grab some. Candis thought that this was nice, well-mannered behavior, while I made a mental note that they lacked the competitive spirit and killer-instinct to be champions and quietly devised ways to instill this in them.

After they had found all of the eggs (I think) David and Graham decided that they wanted to hide the eggs for the adults to find. This was when the underhanded tactics and cheating began, and unfortunately there was no one to play referee. Contestants were spilling other’s baskets to slow them down, they were stealing eggs from one another’s baskets, there were even rumors of one team adding eggs to the game to increase their final count. It was despicable. It was competitive spirit and killer-instinct. It was men against women and the fairer sex did not fair so well despite all their Machiavellian machinations.

It is ironic that my 3 and 4 year old boys were better behaved than the adults. David and Graham managed to share, to be polite and to genuinely be well behaved. This tells me that we haven’t screwed them up yet, but don’t worry our actions later that day assure me that it’s only a matter of time before we do.

The Battle of Christmas

One of the many gifts that my boys received on Christmas morning was a pair of Nerf guns. They ooohh’d and aaahh’d at them for a few minutes, fired off a couple of shots and then moved lustfully on to the next present like George Clooney at a speed dating dinner. As we opened the rest of our presents I often glanced enviously at the sleek plastic toys of destruction, my itchy trigger finger begging for a scratching. What I missed amid all the presents was that my wife was apparently casting an equally envious eye at the Nerf hardware.

Sometime in the afternoon when the boys were calmly drawing in their coloring books, my wife loaded one of the Nerf guns and attacked. I quickly grabbed the second weapon and drafted David, my oldest son leaving my wife with Graham. The battle raged throughout the house, David and I would take cover behind couches and doors and at one point in time I think we even tried to duck behind the dog for cover.

I would on occasion find my wife without any ammo, it was at these times that I learned a dark truth about myself. I am perfectly willing and able to shoot an unarmed woman, in fact I actually derived a great deal of pleasure out of it. In those times when I was without ammo, I found myself telling my first born to run out in the open as bait so that we could collect the balls that his Mother shot at him.

While David and I were laying prone behind a couch I looked at him and said “I’ve got a mission for you but it’s a Black Op, do you know what a Black Ops mission is?”
“No,” he replied.
“It’s the kind of mission where you earn medals, but they have to send them to your next of kin,” I explained. “I need you to go find out where Mom is and then report back to me with her position.” David took off running, not even giving me the chance to explain that if he was caught by the enemy I would disavow all knowledge of his mission. “Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do & die.” (Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

Pretty soon we had recruited the younger boy to our side too, and I had David feeding me ammo while Graham did reconnaissance to determine my wife’s hiding place. This was short lived however, as Graham was easily swayed by my wife’s use of biological warfare (candy from his stocking) and his mental faculties were rendered useless. He was powerless to resist her chocolatey charms. I would later perform a Code Red (swirly) on the little one for his disloyalty.

The battle ended when David went out to gather more ammo for me. I heard my wife yell “Hey! You cheater, you can’t do that!” and I knew that he was about to make me proud. Sure enough, he came running around the corner carrying my wife’s gun with my wife in hot pursuit. I jumped up and laid down a barrage of suppressing fire, stopping my wife in her tracks and causing her to duck into the office for cover. I set my gun down and hugged my son. He had gone above and beyond the call of duty. Never had I been so proud of him, and never have I been so glad that I have boys.