Guess what happens when we ask Tyler, who is now 2.5 years old (31 months), to sing a song for us…

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Due to the nature of what I do for a living, I see a lot of strange, funny, normal, and sad things. As I’m sure we all do. In my case, it’s not uncommon for me to work around confused, sick, or dying people. It hurts me deep within my soul to look into the eyes of a person, who will likely not make it through the next couple of days, and wish them the best. On three occasions, I’ve seen, and worked in very close proximity to, a person that has recently deceased. It envelops me in a hollow sadness to see a person with whom life and consciousness has left.

Up until five weeks ago, that had been the worst that I’d seen in my job.

Recently, one of my peers asked if I could spare a day to help him with a project at one of his hospitals. We had a very productive day, and an all-around good day. As we were wrapping up and getting ready to leave for a late lunch, we were informed that one of the products we had yet to find was located. We found a nurse who led us down the twisting and turning hallways into the pediatric unit and to the room we needed to go into. She peeked her head into the room and asked if we could come in for two or three minutes. In a moment, she opened the door for us to enter.

The patient was a six or seven year old boy. He was sitting, shirtless and pants-less in a chair, wearing only white briefs. Six or more rubber tubes, roughly the diameter of a drinking straw, were inserted into his chest. At least a couple of the tubes were filled with blood. The other tubes were clear, either empty or filled with a clear liquid. He labored to breathe and looked tired. So very tired. His dad sat directly across from him and told him that everything was okay and that we were there to work on something else; not him. At that statement, a lump formed high in my throat.

As we worked, the boy let out a cough. I glanced up to look at him. I didn’t intend to; it was more instinct than desire or intent. He was staring very deliberately at his dad, trying not to cry from the pain that the single cough caused him. I closed my eyes for a moment and looked away before opening them again. As we finished, we wished the boy a fast recovery. I found it extremely difficult to get the words out. The dad thanked us, looked at his son and said “He’s the strongest little man I’ve ever known.” His voice wavered as he said the words.

We left the room and made our way back through the hallways, neither of us speaking. I simply couldn’t find the strength to say anything, for fear that I’d crumble into an emotional mess. As a dad, I see nearly everything through a different set of eyes than I did before. That day, I saw a son trying to be strong and brave for his dad. And I saw a very proud dad… trying to do the same for his son.

I sincerely hope that the little boy recovered. I’m sure he did, and I’m sure he’s running around spreading chaos like every other little kid out there. I’d also like to think that, in some strange six-degrees-of-Kevin-Bacon way, this post makes its way to that dad. I want to thank him for being the best dad he could be to that little boy, especially in his time of need. And more than anything else in the world, I pray that I’m never in that situation.

Picture credit to Sarah

I walked through the house, trying to find my son. Jesus, he was just here. I swear I left him right over there. Moments later, I heard squeals of delight and laughter upstairs. Upstairs… the place I had just recently asked him not to go. His mother was up there, trying to pack. I silently shook my head and enjoyed the calm in the air downstairs. I knew it wouldn’t last for long, because a thirteen hundred square foot house just isn’t enough space for a two and a half year old ball of energy. I couldn’t even remember who he was at the moment. Ten minutes ago, he was Buzz Lightyear. Five minutes ago, he was Silver Iron Man (for the life of me, I cannot get Tyler to call him “War Machine”). Just before I lost him, I believe he was Spiderman, running around the house shooting “sticky webs”, as he likes to call them, from his wrists.

I didn’t hear him come down the stairs. It’s one of the very few times that Tyler actually has the capacity to be silent. He has three methods for coming down the stairs. The first is referred to as “bumping down the stairs.” He sits on the stairs and bumps his butt down them. The second one, which sends me into fits of laughter when I see it, has no name. Tyler sits on the stairs, then turns around and lies down. Then, he simply slides down the stairs, quite quickly. It’s absolutely hysterical to watch, yet I constantly find myself wondering how he doesn’t smash his grapes while doing so. The third method is Tyler’s silent ninja assassin way of descending the stairs. He puts his hand on the wall for balance, because the handrail is just an inch too high at the moment for him to reach, and walks down the stairs. At 33 pounds, he’s not quite heavy enough to cause the stairs to creak. He just simply appears on the ground floor, as if he’s been there all along.

And so, there he was. As he walked towards me, he said, “It smells like daddy toots down here.”

“What?!” I was utterly shocked at the accusation. “What are you talking about?”

“Daddy, you tooted.”

“That wasn’t me, Tyler. That was Lilah.”

Tyler called my bluff. It was a weak story anyway, blaming the dog. “Daddy, you a stinkerwink.”

“A stinkerwink? How dare you?!”

I punished him by chasing him into the kitchen and tickling him relentlessly.

Later, we made our way upstairs to prepare for bed. After getting Ty dressed in his pajamas, we went to check on annoy Sarah. While talking to her about all the fun we had downstairs, and everything we did, Tyler rolled over onto his back, grabbed his feet and pulled them to his ears, and let out a loud and disgusting fart.

“TYLER!” Sarah shouted, while trying – and failing – not to laugh, “HOLY MOLY! THAT’S GROSS!”

I never taught him that, and I know that Sarah would never do such a thing. We rarely let him watch TV, and when he does, we always watch whatever he watches and have never seen that on TV. So I ask, how the heck does a two and a half year old just “figure out” how do to that? He thinks its hilarious, and LOVES farting. We can’t help but laugh, because he always looks at us with a smirk after he lets one rip.

Sarah predicted (accurately, I fear) that, “one day, he’s going to light those things.”