Seth, I am your Father’s Day

As a father of four, I didn’t harbor any hopes of sleeping in this past Sunday. I expected maybe some breakfast in bed, but I knew I was in for some kind of surprise.

I awoke to the best kind of gift: a heartfelt & handmade card from my daughters (all 3 of them) and a lightsaber from my son.

You read that right; a lightsaber

For some perspective let’s rewind back to Christmas when my son, Owen, was given an ultimate fx lightsaber. At his request (and interest) we made sure to get the green lightsaber used by Luke in Return of the Jedi, though there are 3 or 4 other models.

It just so happens that Owen presented me with one of these other lightsabers – Darth Vader – just after his elder sister gave me the card. The little guy could hardly contain his excitement when he handed it over and begged me to get out of bed and “fight” the moment I got the box.

I’ll let that sink in for a minute: my son wanted to play-fight with lightsabers where he was Luke and I was Darth Vader. That’s either a complete and total nerdsplosion or an invitation to all kinds of therapy down the road.

Darth Vader Ultimate FX Lightsaber
The gift that keeps on giving … Oedipal complexes.

My thoughts at the time were three-fold:

2. Thank goodness he hasn’t seen all of the newer trilogy.
3. Should I pretend to chop off his hand?

In the end I went with a modified version of the third item and just intoned “Join me and together we can rule the galaxy as Father and Son!” in my best James Earl Jones.

That particular move earned me a groan from Jenn, but I still got some quality playtime in with the boy, as you can see here:

[Footnote: the Darth Vader Ultimate FX Lightsaber really is an elegant (toy) weapon, even in one’s underwear]

After the melee was over, we all went to eat brunch and, upon our return, Owen claimed Vader’s lightsaber as his own, saying I could “borrow it whenever I wanted to”. That’s a win in my book, even if the symbolism doesn’t catch up to him until later.

I went to sleep Sunday night knowing at least I was a better Dad than Anakin Skywalker. 😉

Happy Father’s Day to me!

The Call All Parents Dread

Today’s event(s):



“Hi, this is [redacted] from [also redacted], Owen’s daycare.”

“Yes?” (Feeling nervous now)

“We wanted to let you know that Owen had an accident, but everything is all right.”

“What happened?” (Feeling more nervous now)

“Owen fell and cut his head pretty badly.”

“Is he OK?” (Freaking out a little)

“He’s fine. The paramedics are here now and they’re seeing if he needs stitches or not.”

“Is he conscious?” (Freaking out)

“He’s laughing and smiling now. They don’t think he’ll need stitches.”

“I’ll be right there. Don’t let him fall asleep!” (Freaking the fuck out)

While I may have taken some liberties with the dialogue, there’s more truth to this story than the average Mike Daisey monologue.

What really shouldn’t surprise – being the father of four and being a recipient of two concussions myself – is just how small the injury is relative to the blood it was said to have generated.

Photographic evidence that makes everyone, especially me, breath a sigh of relief.


The funny thing is no one, not even Owen himself, could give me a very specific account of exactly how the injury occurred. One minute he’s riding a trike outside, the next he’s on the ground, bleeding and clutching his head.

Reports of a collision, a prat fall and sudden stop all seem to contradict one another, but maybe I’m not imaging the creative destructive capacity of your average Pre-K boy.

The worst part of the whole ordeal? Washing the boy’s hair in the shower. Nothing says “awesome Tuesday night” quite like shampooing a flesh wound.

Better luck tomorrow, I suppose.

Two-year-olds and aggravation: repetition is the key

Over the weekend I seriously considering penning a work of academic nonfiction entitled “God & Gutenberg: The Church & Copyright” until I realized that I was both nonreligious and not Larry Lessig.

My only prior knowledge of Gutenberg being downloading some eBooks from the Project that bears his name and my experience in the church was mainly centered around Methodist “Vacation Bible School” as a kid.

Thankfully for everyone, I’m not writing the book, I’m staying willfully ignorant of all the history surrounding Gutenberg (I get the Movable Type thing) and I stopped going to VBS after age 12.

What does this story have to do with two-year-olds? We both get strange ideas in our heads, apparently.

Owen (my two-year-old) got an idea stuck in his head this morning and it wouldn’t let him go. Over the weekend he injured his big toe by dragging it behind him (without his shoe on) to stop his scooter. Having already nearly ruined two pair of shoes in the same manner, he went about destroying his digits.

So after getting a band-aid this morning, the hot topic at the breakfast table was “Is my band-aid still on?”

The “conversation” went like this. Twelve times in a row.

Owen: Is my band-aid still on?
Me: Yes
Owen: Is my band-aid still on?
Me: Yes
Owen: Is my band-aid still on?
Me: Yes
Owen: Is my band-aid still on?
Me: Your band-aid is still on.
Owen: Yeah, it is!

Seriously. Twelve times.

And not Twelve verses, Twelve conversations of the exact wording and length as above.


In the process of dropping him off at daycare I warned them of his obsession which means one thing: he didn’t mention it once. Until I got there.

I love that kid. He and I both need to learn to let go though.


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

From the center director of our daycare this morning:


I had Owen with me this morning and he was telling me how much he missed you. He wanted me
to take his picture and send it to you.

Happy Tuesday!

The visual evidence:

Owen pouting
Owen pouting

I love and miss that kid and, obviously, he loves and misses me.

I think it gets to me mostly because he looks so much like I did at that age, pout/scowl and all.

See you soon, Owen!