The Compartmentalization Of A Little Boy’s Brain

Tuesday, April 23rd, 2013

2 years, 5 months.

Dear Jack,

I am told on a weekly basis, by family members, by friends, by co-workers, and readers, that I am a very “black-and-white, cut-and-dry” person; that there is no gray with me.

It’s as if I put every situation and event in it’s own compartment in my brain; as if history always repeats itself.

Maybe that’s part of the reason I’m a vegan. All or nothing, right?

Maybe that’s why I make a living by discovering performance formulas for my company to help them become more efficient.

I look at what does work, separate it from what doesn’t work, then check for reoccurring patterns.

Sure, I realize the world isn’t categorized in perfectly organized compartments, but I work to help make it that way as much as possible.

Son, I’m pretty sure you’re going to be a lot like me in those regards. In fact, I’m pretty sure you already are that way.

Sunday afternoon as Mommy was preparing dinner, you got upset because she wasn’t able to play trains with you like I was. After about 90 seconds of a breakdown because you couldn’t stand to be playing without her though she was only 10 feet away, I had to take action.

You and I went upstairs to play. You had to be moved out of the compartment of “Mommy, play with me!” to “Me and Daddy are playing like boys!”

By the time we stepped into your room, you were fine with Mommy being downstairs… in a “different compartment.”

The base of our papasan rocking chair broke, only leaving the dome-shaped seat part intact.

As I spun you around and quickly swayed you, it magically became a yellow submarine, a monster truck, and a horsey.

Together, you and I were loud, rough, and technically violent in our Daddy-son compartment.

You stripped yourself down to your pro-wrestler/superhero attire, which is a diaper and nothing else.

But once Mommy entered the room, you became a different little boy; a little boy who wanted to read and wear clothes, not play.

I’ve also noticed that everyday when I drop you off at school, you get quiet the moment I hand you over to your teacher, not speaking or showing emotion again until after I’m out of sight.

Different compartments.

Who knows? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I’m drawing too many conclusions; because after all, I’ve already established that I look for patterns and formulas in everything.

Maybe little girls can just as easily be the same way. I wouldn’t know about that; no history to build on since you don’t have a sister.

 

Love,

Daddy

 

 

 

Boys And Their Battle Scars

Friday, January 25th, 2013

2 years, 2 months.

Dear Jack,

Nearly a month ago while I was converting your crib into a bed, you managed to make your way over to a wooden panel I had just removed and set aside on the other corner of your bedroom.

Unfortunately, your innocent curiosity led to the wooden panel falling and hitting you in the face.

It frightened you more than anything. While it didn’t leave a bruise, it did cut you.

If only you had my oily Italian skin, the cut would have been healed up already. Instead, weeks later there’s still a visible mark there.

Mommy and I have been faithfully applying aloe vera and Mederma for Kids on it.

I feel horrible that this happened to you.

The problem is, you’re a boy, and you wanted to be part of the action. You wanted to see me “build your big boy bed.”

Son, I am very sorry. Hopefully, the cut won’t become a permanent scar.

At the same time, I know I can’t shelter you from everything. You’re going to get hurt, no matter how much I try to protect you. There will always be some random way for you to get hurt; one that I just didn’t see coming.

For what it’s worth, last weekend while I was playing trains with you on the floor, you came charging at me with your closed fists up in the air.

Smack! The toy train in your right hand hit me directly in the middle of my forehead. What was a cut for a few days became slightly infected, officially making it a stubborn zit.

So right now, you and I both have noticeable red dots on our faces. They’re just our matching battle scars.

Still, if you end up not having a scar from this, it will be a big sigh of relief for me.

Not because you would be any less of a beautiful boy, but because it would serve as a reminder that ultimately you got hurt and I had something to do with it.

 

Love,

Daddy