My Hawaiian experience is proving difficult to articulate in words and more easily shared through actions. Indeed, some persist subconsciously, like my habit of flashing the shaka sign as a way to say “thank you” to kind gestures in traffic. (In many ways, it’s like the opposite of the angry middle-finger salute; try it some time when someone makes room for you to merge ahead of them.) I suppose it’s a lot like the elusiveness of a concise translation for Aloha, but that’s a topic for another post or series yet to come.
On Sunday, I went to help a friend move some furniture. Daniel is transforming his wife’s home-office into a birthing room and nursery for their daughter, expected later this month. After wrestling an antique bookcase together and devouring his thank-you meal, we got to talking about the surreal story of parents kidnapping children from grandparents; how it came to that; the terrifying possibility of state-sponsored kidnapping and how we might react.
I happen to know the grandparents involved, so it has been on my mind ever since I learned about it. The whole scenario – what I know about it, anyway – is deeply troubling. Parents involved in anti-government activities (free speech vs. violence?). Children taken and placed in foster care after the police in a Deep South state found cannabis in their parents’ possession (pointless prohibition vs. child endangerment?). The father assaulting grandma in front of the kids, taking them and tying her up, and then sailing with the two little ones into the Gulf of Mexico in bad weather in a small boat (a whole lot of very bad judgment vs. going to extremes to protect one’s family?).
But I digress again. This was meant to be a light-hearted post. After our heavy conversation, I needed a break. I also knew that Daniel hardly ever gets one. So I asked if I could take his son Alexander to the park, thereby giving my friend some rare time to himself and me some play time with an adorable little kid. (Naturally, Daniel used it to clean the house – an opportunity that most of us single folks take for granted.)
Alexander and I strolled down the sidewalk to a great little neighborhood park. He knew the way like the back of his hand, so I kept goofing around about getting lost and challenging him to distinguish left from right. He has “Go straight!” down pat (the park is on his street), but my unnecessary turns elicited laughter and gesticulation: “Not that way, silly…” [pointing earnestly] “that way!”
Our Sunday afternoon play-date was a blast. After showing me his playground dexterity, we launched into a game of freeze-tag that involved lots of joyful squealing (by him) and childish clowning around (by me). Next, Alexander suggested we play hide-and-seek. “You hide while I count to thirteen,” and without pause he began, “1, 2, 3 … 9, 10, 11. Ready or not here I come!”
What about twelve and thirteen?, I wondered, ducking behind some playground equipment where I could still keep my eyes on him. We took turns hiding and seeking. Whenever it was my turn to seek, I peeked through my hands to watch where he went, then feigned confusion as I looked behind everything except his hiding place until Alexander revealed his whereabouts by laughing hysterically. “Gotcha!”
When I caught him blatantly watching me hide, I called him on it. “You’re cheating. Cover your eyes and start counting again.” And then I thought: Is this how hypocrisy begins, with good intentions and seemingly benign?
Our last round of hide-and-seek ended with Alexander dancing beneath the park’s gazebo, just because it struck him in the moment to dance without a care in the world, except to watch his shadow move. I suppose this is a big reason why I love to spend time with other people’s kids, despite wanting none of my own. Moments of pure bliss and wonder.
Actually, that’s only half true. I also subscribe to the belief that “It takes a village.” If we can’t make time for the kids in our lives and in ourselves, then I think we’re doomed as a society.
I told Alexander’s father that we’d be back by 6pm, so after his dance he climbed back into the stroller and we started wandering back in the same manner as we came. “Which way do I turn?” When he pointed left and said “That way!” I commenced a spin. Squealing with laughter as we came back around, he pointed and exclaimed, “Go straight!” Fair enough.
Like most four-year-olds, Alexander is very observant and likes to comment on the world around him. We spotted lizards and flowers and gazed up at big, beautiful trees that canopied the sidewalk. To a couple of guys working to rehab an old bungalow, we said “Nice work, fellas!”
I spotted a very attractive woman in a bright blue sundress at the far end of the block. She was walking her dog, a cute little pug, in our direction. Taking my cue from Alexander to seize the moment and from Hawaii to spread the love, I prompted him with what I’d say if I had more chutzpah. As we approached I spoke to Alexander, “What do you say?”
“Hello little doggie!”
The woman smiled and said hello back. Then I said to him, “What else?”
“Hello pretty lady!”
Her reaction was priceless, like she was startled by delightful news: “Oh!” and then a blushing, stifled giggle – almost like a hiccup. Her hand rose reflexively to cover her mouth. I didn’t stop or even look her way, just caught the expression from the corner of my eye as we passed by each other. I hope it made her day as much as it made mine.
Kids say the darnedest things.
Adventures in Daddy Duty 