Rocket Man

When I was a kid, our neighborhood consisted of a straight street that dead-ended in front of our house.  Across the street, acres of impenetrable woods faced us and we only had neighbors on one side of our house.  A dirt field was on the other side of the house.  For the real estate market, impenetrable woods and a dirt field don’t add up to a great place to live.  For a pack of prepubescent boys, we lived in Shangri-la. 

We three Towles boys played with a group of Irish kids, and we seemed to always get into some kind of mess.  Whether we were building underground forts or making large lakes from small streams or setting the woods on fire, our lives were filled with adventure and danger and risk, lots of risk. 

We, the Towleses and the McSweeneys, tried to push the limits of our daring, often resulting in injuries, minor and not-so-minor.  For instance, the time Anthony McSweeney fell out of a tree, we thought he was dead at first.   Then, he moaned, “I’m paralyzed,” and we all figured he was ok.  (He was swinging from one tree to the other when he fell, so we thought it was pretty funny, too).  Just multiply that near-death experience by about a hundred, and you can guess the kind of danger and daring we lived through. 

For the most part, we could rely on our parents to tell us when someone was going to get hurt, and to steer us in the other direction.  Often we didn’t obey those directions, but we could at least rely on them for a “safety compass” before we did something really stupid.  Our parents were the voices of reason, offering the drumbeat of sanity in our daredevil world. 

Except for the time Dad “fixed” Joe’s chain on his bicycle, our parents represented a safety in our dangerous lives.  Back when I was limited to the bicycle as my main method of locomotion, Dad was the “go-to” guy for any fixes or adjustments I needed to make on my wheels.  He seemed to know it all when it came to bicycle maintenance, from adjusting the seat to fixing a flat tire.  Until Joe’s “chain incident,” we were all pretty confident in his abilities.  Even the McSweeney boys talked about my Dad’s mechanical acumen, and they sometimes went to him for help. 

Until that fateful day, that is.  My older brother, Joe, needed some adjustment on his bicycle.  The chain kept falling off, and he couldn’t use his brakes.  With the chain off, Joe’s bike was a land missile, a speeding projectile without hope of stopping.  So Joe did what any of us would have done:  he took his bike to Dad. 

Joe walked his bike up to Dad, and confidently said, “Chain won’t stay on.  Can you fix it?”

Just as confidently, Dad took the bike from Joe, turned it over, and began work.  Within ten minutes, the chain had been adjusted, oiled, and put back on its tracks. Dad turned the pedals and the bike looked good as new. 

Joe said a quick, “Thanks,” and hopped on his bike, ready to continue the day of daring we had planned. 

Our house stood on the top of a hill, and our front yard sloped down to the street. Midway through his trip down the gravel driveway, however, danger came before Joe had planned for it.

As he went down the driveway, Joe hit a bump and his chain fell off.  Instead of being slowed down by the bumps in its path, Joe’s bike seemed to pick up speed with every hill he rode over.   By the time Joe hit the street at the bottom of the driveway, I believe he was going 732 miles an hour. 

The McSweeney boys and I had been waiting in our front yard for the bike to be fixed, so we were really surprised when the flash of Joe’s humanity passed us—and Joe was in a hurry.  We looked to see where he was going, but we only saw the impenetrable woods, and Joe pierced its darkness still riding his rocket bike. 

At first, I thought we’d never get Joe out of the impenetrable woods, mainly because it was, well, impenetrable.  We ran down the hill, though, and stopped at a four-foot, Joe-shaped hole that had burrowed through the forest.  It was like a cartoon hole that Bugs Bunny often makes when he goes through a wall or something.  Only this wasn’t a cartoon and Joe was a hundred yards into the woods with only his bike as protection. 

There were two reasons the woods were so impenetrable:  vines and thorns.  You couldn’t walk three steps without encountering one, or both, of these obstacles, but Joe’s speed overcame all.  By the time we had recovered from the shock, Dad had run down the hill and had entered the woods.  A few minutes later, Dad came out of the woods with the bike, and Joe staggered out right behind him. 

Miraculously, nothing was broken, except our undying faith in Dad’s mechanical ability.  Sure, we still trusted Dad to fix our bikes and everything, but I don’t think any of us tested him by riding down the driveway.  In Dad’s defense, I really don’t think he made a mistake when he fixed Joe’s bike.  The uneven gravel driveway pretty much flung that chain off its track, and I believe it would have happened if Joe were riding a brand-new bike. 

Dad’s reaction to the accident is the main thing I remember.   He flung the bike at the bottom of the hill, and walked Joe up to the house.  We followed them up to the door, but Dad asked the McSweeney boys to go home.  Then, we noticed Joe’s chest, arms, and back were filled with tiny briars.  All over his body, Joe was scraped, pierced and stung with the briars and sticks he’d encountered in the woods. 

For the next few hours, Dad, with tweezers in hand, picked and pulled briars out of Joe’s body.  It was pretty terrible for Joe, who had these hours of pain, but it was also pretty bad for Dad, too.  It’s tough enough trying to protect kids from their pain without being the inadvertent cause of it.

My Wife Has the Force Like Luke Skywalker

I’ve heard about a woman’s intuition for quite a long time.  Everyone from Oprah from our own mother has discussed this “sensor” in a woman, which has been either removed or not installed in men. 

Sunday’s intuition started sounding the alarm during Jonah’s tenth month, and I didn’t know what was happening. 

Here’s what was going on. 

I came home one day and Sunday said, “Jonah has been terrible.  I couldn’t get him to sleep and he’s just been grouchy and I think he’s got an ear infection.”

My brain translated her message thusly:  “Jonah’s grumpy.”

In my defense, Jonah did not help his mother’s version of the story.   Just as she’s describing his terrible behavior, he’s looking at me, smiling pleasantly. 

My response, although honest, was not particularly uplifting:  “He looks ok to me.  Can I go run?”

There, in our living room, Sunday contemplated leaving me for a cell phone.  At least the cell phone listens when she speaks. 

She got that look that says, “You will listen to me or the universe will crack in two.” 

So, I listened, more closely this time.

“He’s been grouchy and he won’t sleep and I think he has an ear infection.”

“How do you know he has an ear infection?”

“He pulls his ears.”

“I haven’t seen any ear pulling.”

“Well, he pulls his ears.”

“So we should go to the doctor because of one sleepless afternoon and some light, part-time ear pulling?”

Since I was the one who said that last thing, I took Jonah to the doctor.  The result:  Severe ear infection. 

As you can tell, I am not entirely to blame for my lack of diagnosis skill.  It’s inherited.  My father was a terrible diagnoser of illnesses, extreme and minor.  I know some of you are thinking, “Couldn’t he have inherited his mother’s diagnosis skill?”  My answer is a resounding, “Of course not.”

This brings us to a number of conclusions:

1.  Jonah’s going to be very difficult to diagnose.  We’d heard ear infections were the second coming of the black plague.  Tales of midnight screaming fits and inconsolable children were the “coin of the realm” of ear infection stories.  Those things didn’t happen.  One afternoon of restlessness and some ear pulling, and Sunday had cracked the case. 

2.  We, as adults, are getting gypped.  Jonah’s medicine smells like bubble gum.  Why can’t we get bubble gum medicine?  I try to take Nyquil and I have a gag reflex.  Why can’t adult medicine taste like Hubba Bubba instead of a skunk batch of Grannie’s Corn Squeazins?  There are times when I’ve been tempted to swig off his amoxicillin, but I have refrained.

3.  Don’t ignore women’s intuition.  My mother had it and my father simply accepted that he didn’t have it.  It’s like Luke Skywalker and the force.  Sunday’s got the force and I am C-3PO, trying to keep up.

Stuff that Makes Him Laugh

Things that make him laugh

As you can tell, Jonah loved to laugh when I was in extreme pain.  He was not a “one-trick pony” however.  There were plenty of other times—aside when I am in excruciating pain—when Jonah laughed.

Reading a Book:       Sunday and I have tried to read a few books to him before he went to sleep at night.  Most of the time, I got this privilege and I loved it.  I would get down on the floor and Jonah would sit in front of me, looking at the book.

I usually would choose one of those board books, with the pages the width of a standard steel door.  Turning those pages makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something, mainly because one turn of the page equals one quarter of the book’s length. 

Jonah’s reaction to this, though, was great.  I usually had a choice:  I could read three different books, or I could read the same book three times.  Either way, Jonah was excited.  

I would read the title of the book, and then turn the page.  Jonah would look up at me as if he were saying, “Can you believe this?!?!  I have never heard such an amazing story!” 

Then I would read whatever was on the page.  (It’s usually something like, “And the puppy danced and played with his friends.”)  Jonah would look down at the page and back up at me laughing quietly.

When I would turn the next page, Jonah would look up at me again, as if were saying, “HEY!  There’s more of this.  And there’s that puppy again!”

I would read whatever was on the page, and Jonah’s laughter would increase.  By the time I was at the end of the book, Jonah would be doubled over with laughter, barely able to contain himself—which is why he wears diapers full time. 

My Singing:   Now this one may not come as a shock to you, mainly because people have been laughing at my singing for decades now, but Jonah got distinct pleasure at laughing whenever I opened my mouth to sing something.  I blame Sunday.  She laughs like that, too.

“Getting” Jonah:      This is a classic game, where the “getter” announces in a clear voice, “I’m gonna get you.”  Then, the “gettee” usually runs/crawls away from the “getter” with a pronounced sense of dreadful glee. 

Jonah didn’t quite understand this game at first.  I would get at the end of the hall, with plans for hours of chasing and laughing swirling in my head, when I would announce to Jonah, sitting at the end of the hall, “I’m gonna get you.”

He would smile and return to his investigation of the boot he’d found in the hall. 

I would crawl up a few more feet and announce, “I’m gonna get you.” 

He would look up from his boot as if to say, “Yes, I see you Dad.  You said that before.  Gotta boot here.  Catch you later.”

A little less enthusiastic, I would crawl a few more feet toward him and announce again, “I’m gonna get you.”

This time, he wouldn’t even look up from the boot, but he would begin laughing a little, as if to say, “Pleasant chap, isn’t he?”

By the time I would get to him, I would be more than displeased at his reaction and a tad frustrated.  Jonah, however, would have his eyes permanently glued to the boot and he would be laughing hysterically.  I would react by attacking his neck with kisses, sending Jonah into an outward, gut-laugh that most babies can only dream of. 

At this point, Jonah would choose to crawl away, and the chase would be on.  He would take two strides—is it a stride when you’re crawling?—anyway, it’s two strides and he would look back.  I wouldn’t move.  (When you’re this much bigger than your quarry, you don’t need to move in simultaneity.)  Jonah would move a few more strides and then look back again, just in time for me to announce, “I’m gonna get you.” 

He would sit up and wait.  He would actually want me to get him.  He figured, “Why am I moving away from this fellow who is telling me he’s going to get me anyway?  I might as well stay here and wait for him.”  

He would wait and I would resume my kissing attack on his cheeks, neck and throat.  It would be an onslaught of sugar and Jonah could not get enough.  He would roll around on the floor laughing and squealing until my lips chapped or he passed out. 

Playing on the Floor

Jonah and I have a ton of time during the day to play and explore and generally get on each other’s nerves.  

My main method of getting him to play with me is this:  I lie on the floor and wait for him to pounce. 

In Jonah’s world, anything on the floor is fair game.  Toys, shoes, remote controls, and dog droppings all come into his realm and remain there, indefinitely, until he becomes interested in something else or when he’s sleepy.  It is his right and his duty to catalog and inspect such objects.  Thus, when I lie on the floor, it his invitation to investigate this strange new item.

As I await his appearance on my chest, my mind sometimes wandered, which was incredibly dangerous.  Jonah increased his girth to the point where he could actually cause severe and permanent damage to any sensitive part of my body, including, but not limited to, my eyes, gums, cuticles, and skin.  (You may have another sensitive body part that you can imagine him injuring.  Are you imagining?  Yep.  He’s injured that, too).  Thus, any activity that distracted from a hyper-vigilant awareness of his exact location introduced a danger to mi propio carne, if you know what I mean.

At the time of his arrival onto my chest, he had usually been playing around for a good half hour, making use of the toys scattered about the living room.  Thus, he was in a nirvana of investigation, a “crawler’s high” not unlike the excited energy found in most crack houses and all nursery school playrooms. 

Imagine his round head, rising from the side of my torso—like the Phoenix from the ashes—smiling, drooling, and babbling.  He would begin his investigation by lightly slapping my chest, then harder, then harder again.  I never thought I’d get a “pink belly” after leaving Middle School, but Jonah regularly slapped me hard enough to rival those Middle School bullies.  As he increased the intensity of his slaps, he closed his fists, and continued beating on my belly.  Toward the end of his recital, it sounded like a Kettle Drum was being played in our living room.

As I caught my breath and wiped the tears from my eyes, he’d climb on top of my belly and sit down.   Jonah recognized the face, so he felt like it was his right to investigate.  About this time, as he reached out to slap me upside the coconut, I would divert his attention by sticking out my tongue.  (I have learned that Jonah’s first effort at investigation is a good, firm slap.  I’m glad he hasn’t started investigating pudding).

The tongue, for Jonah, was an amazing thing.   When I revealed that I have a tongue, Jonah’s face had an indescribable look of complete wonder.  To verbalize the look, it’s like he was saying, “What in the world is going on with this guy’s face?  Is anyone else catching this?  That is sticking out of the middle of his head.  I think I’ll slap him.”

Instead of slapping me, though, he would try to grab my tongue.  As he reached for it, I would put it back in my mouth.  He would retreat.  I would stick out my tongue again.  He would reach for it again, and I would put it back in my mouth.  He would retreat.  This was repeated a couple more times before Jonah decided to investigate.

His investigations went something like this:  He would take his index finger—with its razor-sharp fingernail—and curl my bottom lip down, cutting a quarter-inch gash into my gums.  He would laugh and let go.  He went back to my mouth, looking for that tongue, but he would get to the teeth the next time and pry open my mouth.  Hey, maybe Jonah should work for the rescue squad as a “jaws of life.”  Anyway, he would get to my tongue and try to rip it out of my head. 

After he was done with my tongue, he noticed that I have a nose.  Here’s where Jonah brought the pain.  He was remarkably quick, especially since he just recently discovered that he could control the use of his arms and hands.  As I recover from bleeding gums and a bruised uvula, Jonah would savagely place his entire fist in my right nostril, giggling uncontrollably.  He loved it.  His laughing increased, reaching a crescendo when he was “elbow deep.”

At this point, I would grab his little arm because I fear that he might leave permanent scratches.    Before I could get his arm out of my nose, he would slap my brain and then laugh.