First the Last: Beckett

 

Beckett is our third little wonderkin.  As is his place in the birth order, in the recent past, he tends to be relinquished to third place in family accounts behind his zany, movin’ and grovin’ big bro Rhys (3 yrs) and his astute, sensitive, big, big bro, Kelly (5 yrs).  Rhys and Kelly, being more verbal and physically developed, tend to steal the show.  

Beckett, now 2 1/2 years old, has started to assert himself in a new-fangled way in the pecking order.  I’m not saying Beck has always been plain vanilla, cherubic baby bliss.  No, he’s always been a notable, feisty little beast of a baby and toddler.  I think, always trying to stay even with his two big bros, he is at the age in his development where he can fight (sometimes in the literal meaning!) to level ground and keep pace with 1 and 2.  His chubby baby knees have vanished and I’ve noted his elongating, strong, slender legs.   His garbled baby talk has transformed into meaningful, staccato phrases and sentences, in English and Spanish, thanks to our team of nannies.  Noting what his young brothers can and can’t do, Beckett often proclaims, when I reach to help him with a jacket or remove his trainer pull-up diaps (Kelly was in diaps beyond his 4^th birthday and Beck surely will not), “I do it! I do it!”

Here’s a story about a great day I shared with Beckett and #2 that made me think differently about my littlest boy – he’s not Baby Beckett any more.  He’s growing up.

Earlier this month, on a Saturday, Catherine planned to take Kelly to visit dear friends who had just sprouted a baby boy of their own.  So, it was what I like to call a “Daddy Adventure Day” for me and the two littles.  After Cath slipped out with Kelly around 9 am, I waited for the morning air to warm a pinch, (it was in the mid 30’s but the forecast said a high of 43).  Then, I set to work bundling up the boys - you try putting mittens on a two-year old screaming, “I doooo it!” After the boys were finally properly bundled, I loaded Beckett and Rhys into the Burley, in walking mode, not biker, these days, and headed for the playground at Washington Park.   After our 15-minute walk on a cool, sunny, and brilliant, Colorado Saturday morning, the boys had barley peeped, we were striding toward the park playground.  I, wanting to peak their excitement about the coming activities, exclaimed, “Look boys! Look! There’s the playground!” Rhys, I swear, in a flat, non-whiny voice, replied, “I don’t want to go to that playground.”  All right, mister, we’ll keep going to the Platt Park playground, another 15-20 minute walk.  I like long, therapeutic walks these days.  So, on we pushed.

The boys where way more active on this leg of the walk, and were even enjoying each others close company, as is not always the case, playing a barking game.  Yes, they were taking turns barking and howling like dogs and then cackling and laughing there heads off for half the journey to park #2.  Two blocks away from the park the tone in the Burley turned to hostile.  A familiar Yes! No! battle erupted, who knows why and I’m not sure they knew after 30 seconds.  Rhys hunkered down on the Yes! side of the lines and Beckett commanded the No! army – always the case.  I tried to change the subject, “We’re almost to the playground! Errr, look there’s a pick up truck” and walked as fast as I could.  

We unloaded at Platt Park and the mood changed back to the positive side of the meter.   They took on the slide, grinning.  We spun on endlessly on the merry go round, “Faster daddy!”  Then, Rhys led them to the three spring loaded, ride-em cowboy toys, a worn out old medal tiger, a dinosaur and a newer bike.  As Rhys bucked back and forth, giving each toy an initial whooping whirl, Beckett watched from the sidelines holding my right hand.   Rhys jumped off the bike, the last toy in line, walked over to Beck and took him by the hand and said sweetly, leading him to the orange tiger with a paint pealed silver back, “Ride this one.”  He then assisted his little bro with the mount, lifting Beck’s almost-too-short front leg over the top of the beast and then he just shoved Beck, both hands, on to the tiger’s back.  I was smiling watching this harmonious performance.   The boys rotated tiger, dino, bike, forever, having a bare back riding ball.   

Swing action was next.  After every push, Beckett urged me on, “Higher. Higher daddy.”  I pushed them until my arm got tired and, then, with the time creeping past 10:30 am, I ordered, “Let’s load up and go grab hot coco boys!”  The boys squealed something and jumped in the Burley without being asked.  We walked to get our hot chocolate fix and a giant blueberry muffin to share at the Pajama Baking Co. on South Pearl.   The boys were famished from their playground antics and the hot chocolate and muffin vanished in minutes.  I grabbed the Burly as the two boys walked just ahead of me down this old school, two-block long retail district.  After a half a block, Rhys asked to get in the Burley.  As I fiddled with the seat straps, I asked Beck if he wanted in. “No. Not yet.” 

“All right buddy.  Just let me know.”

Two blocks later the retail zone switched to resident rows of old bungalows and I asked Beck if he wanted to climb in. “No. Not yet.”

At each intersection, I’d wait for the little man, walking slightly on his tip toes in his tiny powder blue Sorel boots, and hold his hand as we crossed the street, pushing the Burley with my left.  We reached the corner of Louisiana and Pearl, a busy intersection, but a four way stop, still safe, near the highway.  I asked again if little B wanted to load in. “No. Not yet.”

We navigated the two road crossings at this intersection and pushed on across the I-25 bridge, crossing two more three and two lane highway access roads with crossing lights with our pedestrian three wheeled, three-man assembly.  After crossing I-25, a little hill would slow Beckett and surely coax him into the trailer, I mused.   I asked again, if he wanted in. “No. Not yet.”

Beckett took his time, but, with me smirking and shaking my head in disbelief, Beckett crested the hill and we shuffled, hand in hand, across Downing Street, the entrance to Washington Park.  At this point, Beckett had covered almost one mile on foot and his big brother had walked 60 feet, maybe.  It was about 11 am by now and I was thinking about brunch at The Local, a great diner on South Gaylord with a long inventive kid’s menu.  I figured it was a ten-minute daddy walk from there, with Beckett 20, 25 minutes.  

Beckett was looking tired, as we strolled, slowly, very slowly though Wash Park, busy with joggers, bikers, kid tooting parents, like me, and walkers, like Beckett.   He seemed to enjoy the company of other walkers, looking up and smiling at a grand ma and grand pa type.  Grand ma beamed back and continued on in the other direction. 

As we turn on to Mississippi, exiting the park and entering the surrounding neighborhood, I turned back to look for Beckett.  He’s stopped behind me, squatting.  He looked like he was taking a dump to me.  Crap, his walk is done, I though.  I walked back, felt for a poop and asked if he had a situation in his pants.  “No poop,” he correctly informed me.  I asked again if he wants to load up with Rhys. “No. Not yet.”

“Alright buddy.  Great job walking and following directions, holding hands crossing the streets.”

We continued up Mississippi toward our brunch stop and a minute later Rhys says,  “Poop daddy.  Poop.”  

“Alright buddy but we have to wait until we make it to the restaurant.”  There is always poop, at some point, with our boys, well and me too.  Well, you know what I mean.  Anyway, it’s a five block walk to The Local and Rhys has just informed me he has shit his pants and, oh by the way Daddy, “I want to walk now!”

“You want to walk?”  Shit, now I’m supervising a two and three year old, smack in the middle of a long walk, even for me, and I’m pushing a huge, unwieldy trailer.  This is going to be fun!

I keep a cool, cucumber brain with the boys, mostly, but I have it admit I was starting to panic, just slightly but the rest of the walk actually turned out to be a blast.  The boys teamed up and we all pushed the Burley up Mississippi with only a few minor scuffles between #2 and #3 over control of the vehicle and there was lots of giggling,

We walked into a packed The Local and headed to the small washroom to take care of Rhys’ poop – nice, one empty table near the back in this seat your self joint.  When we reemerged, poop free, from the men’s room our table was gone.  The Local was jammed to capacity, so we moved up the street to Max’s, a seafood place with more standard kids grub.  We ordered pizza for my two little troopers.  Beckett eats like a snake.  Every few days he’ll eat a solid meal but most days he just nibbles or declines to consume even a bite.  I assumed he would make a healthy dent in his personal size round pie - not a bite, just milk.  

Both boys climbed in the Burley after lunch and we moved at a good clip to Daddy Adventure Day Stop #4: Bonnie Brae Ice Cream.   Beckett ate every bite of his “Itty Bitty” scoop of peppermint and Rhys enjoyed his scoop of strawberry in half the time.  We loaded up in the Burley, once again, and headed toward home.  Rhys, likely hearing daddy’s ample praise for his walking bro, was chirping about wanting to walk, but with two difficult major road crossings, I wasn’t hearing him.   When I pushed them to the home side of Bonnie Brae Blvd., I relented to Rhys’ barking after a block and let the boys spring the coop, once again.   After 20 feet on foot, Rhys threw a fit and jumped back in.  Who knows why? Beckett, of course, shuffled on and finished the last three blocks of our Adventure Day on foot.   Google maps says it’s 1.6 miles between the PJ Baking Co, where he started to hoof it, and The Local.   The last little bit up Bonnie Brea Blvd and home is another 0.3 miles.   Beckett marched nearly 2 miles on foot that day and made me understand, rightly, that Baby Beckett was gone.  He made me recognize a resilient and independent minded boy ready to take on the challenges of Daddy Adventure Days and life as a third, not so little, brother, has replaced our little baby. 

Beckett you are a hardy, remarkable young man.   I look forward to each exalted day watching you grow from an astounding treasure of a boy into the talented, compassionate man you will unquestionably become.

PJ Baking to The Local Google Map 

The Micro Chronicles of the Three Giggling, Goofs Turns Two!

I just discovered by happenstance The Goodwillie's blog just turned two years old!  At the beginning, I really was not sure if I was a blogger and just wrote "Snowy Pumpkins" to tell relatives about the goings on with the boys.  It turns out I really love and enjoy spending time with my three rascally boys, Kelly (5), Rhys (3) and Beckett (2) and every month or so they do something so ridiculous, worthy, or disastrous I feel the urge to write.

Turns out, over the two spins of the earth, I've written exactly 50 blog posts.  Most posts are cute tales of our tiny threesome and one was an ode to their priceless gem of a mother, "Mama, Mama, Mama!".  The last three blogs have served as therapy for my recent accident (#1, 2, & 3) - a brain injury, the result of crashing, noggin first, while racing my mountain bike.  I hope, like other aspects of my life, that the blog returns to it's roots, chronicling the bright, humorous stories of our Irish triplets.

Here's what I said the blog turned into after a year on the net,
"My initial intent in writing the blog was to tap out a record of life, an ebaby book, of sorts, for Kelly, Rhys, and Beckett.  My bride and I are not skilled archivist, competent filers, or can even claim to be “organized” with a straight face.  I figured the upside of a blog: I couldn’t lose the contents in a pile of junk mail.  The blog turned out to be 16% baby book and 22% personal therapeutic exercise, a copping mechanism to deal with our family’s frenetic life; the daily grind of providing care, cover, and love for three dependent tiny humans; the challenges our trio of toddlers lob in our face each and every day, all slathered in a salve of humor. What’s the remaining 62%, you ask? It’s a chronicle of the undetectable triumphs we celebrate together, simply, with a smile, a hug or encouraging word. It’s a journal of our joy. I wrote it for me. I wrote it for them."




October 29, 2009
Snowy Pumpkins

A fall blizzard trapped us in the house, but help soon arrived. Rhys the St. Bernard warmed our hearts with his cute doggie Halloween getup and stopped crying long enough for me to take this picture. He loves doggies and saying doggie and reading about doggies, and tries to lick Bella, now and again, but being dressed like a dog seemed to fray the vestments of his soul. He seemed fussy.

We had snow drifts as tall as Rhys on the upper deck.

I made Kelly put on his snow boots and go outside in the cold. He made footprints in front of the house while I dug the cars out. No photo.

Beckett seems heavy, finally, and is sleeping for longer stretches at night. He's growing cuter, daily.
He smiles at me and even other family members.

Thanks for reading.





Other Fun Stuff from the two years blogging:

The Santa Situation and Other Holiday Nuggets

The Three Goodwillie Goofs: Massive Minutia You'd Rather Not Know, September 2010

Beckett's Stay-cation

Tale of Poo, Part 62: Splash Down

Battle of the Buttwipe

 

An Introduction Worth Remembing

My first official job duty, other than sitting through a Trips for Kids (TFK) board meeting teaming with friendlies a few weeks back, was to attend an event, a fundraising deal last weekend neatly served by a true friend of the program in Boulder. Before arriving, while brushing the stink from my breath with a toothbrush wielded in my right hand, I though about my early teary emotional spats and, in particular, a passed emotional incident crying from my wheelchair in front of friends and their trio of young boys during a hospital visit. Crap! The kids and their mom and dad were being just lovely to me. Then, the middle boy, maybe 8 or 9, after his mom saying "he wants to give you something," pulls a biking metal from his pocket and, with my head bowed and lip quivering, slips the blue and red ribbon around my neck. As father to three boys who's time I was missing dearly, I lost it.  So, as I stowed the toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, I though about how the reviving health of my brain over the last month or so seemed to have ended these weepy episodes. I though with a smirk and a shudder about my lost emotional footing weeks ago and laughed to myself, "Jesus, I'll never do that shit again."

We arrived at the fundraising event saying hellos and hugging the TFK greeters and donation collection team, good folk, a bubbly board member and her mountain biker husband. We admired the turn out, the party was clearly well attended. Then, as we entered, we found the party's main host to tell him, honestly, that we truly value his support and, shit, despite the fact I'm going by doctors orders and remaining "beerless" for this "ProAm Craft Beer Fest," the timing of his shindig could not be better. Thank you. We met his girl and he shifts off, yelling to some friends, into the party.

We grab food from the taco cart guy and spend awhile just enjoying the festivities. We've been there  close to an hour, so I'm thinking about doing one more thank you spin to the party planning committee and hitting the road when my board member reappears shepherding two young women my way. She says this is some name and some name my mind just will not remember today - this is the brain injury working against me - and they want to meet you. We shake hands and say hellos. The small red head then says, "I wanted to meet you because I was actually one of the first...."

And I'm thinking, "One of the first Trips for Kids volunteers? Could be, that was eight years ago but she doesn't look familiar. First what, I wonder.

"I was actually one of the first rescue patrolers on the scene of your crash."

Oh, holy shit. Not what I was expecting my first night out on the town.

She said clearly, "Great to meet you and wow it's great to see you are doing ok.  I wasn't sure that was you. We were all impressed by how you were fighting and trying to stay with us."

With a welling of tears in her eyes she continued, "You were....."  And she launched into my specific actions, basically, of me trying to stay alive and their team's efforts to keep me alive. I tried to stick with her as long as possible, but, at first stopped up in my throat, almost a cough, I started crying. As she finished her brief account of that afternoon, I turned away, overcome by what she told me, sobbing. 

I wanted to know more about this time that has vanished from my life.  I knew little to nothing about this faithful time a few hours after my crash. I wanted to find out more about the 45 minutes of my life when I was scraped off the trail and packed out on a headboard by her team of Winter Park patrollers. I wanted to know more about their decision to transport me to Denver via Flight for Life but I could only cry, moved by her story of my fucked up day racing my mountain bike and how I struggled hard for life.  I didn't expect her story to paint my end so perilous , so uncertain.

After I regained my composure, her friend engaged me in lighter conversation about her involvement in a urban biking program in another city and her willingness to serve as a volunteer or, as a follow nonprofiteer, help TFK shine in other ways. It was a conversation I could handle - right up my ally, really. Then she said, "Your injury will get better with time. I know I was a pro biker once and had a bad crash, a car.  I found it difficult to speak clearly for about four months." Still stuggling with my speech, just a touch now compared to five or six weeks ago when I would end conversations routinely by admitting, "I don't remember what I was trying to say," I cried again for her, for me.

Before the girls found a less intense person to hang with at the Craft Beer Fest, I gathered myself and first admitted my name difficulties with the head injury - nice to speak with you Emma and Rachel, the patroller. I generously thanked Rachel for her work rescuing me and promised to stay in touch with each. I have learned much about life in my journey though this mishap and I will keep my promise to Emma and Rachel, for certain.

They undoutably taught me people face all stripes of adversity and survive.  They taught me there are folks like Rachel and my team at Craig who do everything they can to help people fight back from these situations and live meaningful lives.  I'm working on writing down other purposeful lessons I've learned from my accident, eight weeks of dedicated work on my recovery, and now, three weeks post my vital time in the hospital which has made other lessons become starkly apparent. Like my writing about our life with three young sons, I'm writing this to recall and record the certain challenges of my recent life.  I choose to post it on this blog not necessarly for others to read (tho I dont mind if you do) but to help myself figure out, maybe correctly, how to wage this new battle against my wayward limbs and solve this crazy puzzle of nerve damage testing my right flank. 

One important note, we celebrated Kelly's 5th birthday yesterday with a crowd of kids and a jumpy castle, with slide per Kelly's firm wishes.  During the three hour long party, I spotted Kelly twice.  The kid got an epic jump on yesterday.  Happy birthday son.

If you like to start at the beginning of my difficult days, go here and then here.

I'm Lucky

I slept last night.  I felt, almost, normal the next day.  When I sleep, unlike the nonsensical nights sleep I endured most nights at Craig, I feel normal, almost.  When I sleep I don't feel like I'm the slow kid not keeping up with pleasant conversation or even a completely broken man.  I still have a hitch in my gitty-up caused by a right leg that still isn't wired correctly.   Maybe it's because I still hang with some very broken folks during my Craig sessions, but I'm starting to believe my hitch is hardly perceptual, if your not getting paid to study my gait like my PT.  And my right arm, (I'm a natural left hander which has made my situation a leap and bound easier to manage.) especially my right hand, is still a weak sissy that can't do fine motor skills with any amount of speed but my right wing is now serving for light duty tasks. I can now manage, right handed, to zip and button my pants, hold open a newspaper, remove the stopper from a gallon of milk, among other right handed jobs. I have, as a fun form of physical therapy, been playing right handed catch with my boys.  We exchange bouncing underhanded tosses with a heavy gel filled ball, it's weight perfect for adding strength to my hand.   Kelly (4) and even Rhys (3) can catch my awkward looking but fairly accurate servings about 80% of the time. I, using my weakened right hand and with their poor tossing technique, only mange to grab half of their balls but its fun weather I snatch one or whiff.

I slept last night, I feel almost normal, and just plain lucky.   Even though I'm not physically right, yet, I feel lucky every day.  As I mentioned before, my most quantifiable reason I feel lucky is the array of broken people I encounter and I am friends with at Craig.  The friends I know who departed around the same time as I or are on track to depart in the next weeks are, frankly, going to need the aid of other people for quite sometime, if not for a lifetime. My injuries, beyond my healing brain, are simply superficial. I sustained road rash on my knees, right shoulder, and chin - not even a broken collar bone for me.  Because the intensity of injury to their body's (think how you might end up crashing your drag racer at 200 mph, crashing your motorcycle into a u-turning car and getting dragged for a block trapped under the engine block, or suffering a land mind attack in Iraqi - a horror) some of my fellow Craig residents are there three months before the start even considering a move home after four or five months hard time.

I'm lucky, I only did two weeks at Denver Health and three weeks at Craig and was sent home one week ago, Friday.  It's been six weeks since my troubling head first crash and I still visit Craig for out patient therapy several times a week, visiting friends and the therapeutic staff, to further the healing of my body and mind but I receive the gift of time with my boys during off hours now. Playing a card game with Kelly, listening to Rhys' rascally laugh, or cuddling and singing a lullaby with Beck before bed are my joyous cues while not doing structured therapy. Now, even in the midst of a three year old fit or a two year old tantrum, truly, the boys make me smile every second I spend with them.

I'm lucky that I didn't die, leaving a harsh wake of death for my dear family to grapple.   I can't imagine Cathrine telling the boys their daddy is dead.  I had a dear friend die of a head injury four years ago - it's painful and sickening process.  I'm lucky Catherine wasn't picked to call deaths end for a father of three impossibly small.  I'm lucky she was stubbornly fit and tenderly able to direct my care, first at Denver Health and then at Craig's.  Each facility has wonderful, dedicated staff but ultimately Cath faced, especially at the beginning, hard decisions regarding my care or would hardily fight for me when I was faced by dunces who where occasionally assigned to managed my care.  I am lucky to have a wife so caring, so relentless to make the last six weeks what every doctor I've met claims to be, with a level of measured caution, a somewhat miraculous recovery.  I am lucky to have Catherine on my team and I want everyone, everyone to know she has helped me during this difficult time using every fiber in her body.  I am lucky to have Catherine as my wife.

I was still in Craig but made it to the final stage of the pro race.

Gram Mary has been amazing!

We went for a hike in the mts last weekend.

Rhys celebrating his first day of school with dad. 

I'm riding again (stationary) these days.

Catastrophe on Race Day

Catastrophe on Race Day - 8/26/11

30 days ago while competing in an amateur mountain bike race, (I was racing and feeling strong, holding a top five position) I crashed in a heap and knocked myself out.  I was in such bad shape after a crew of patrollers in Winter Park removed me from the forest etched race course strapped to a backboard,  I was evacuated to Denver via a Flight for Life aircraft.  I ended up surviving the crash, but endured a serious brain injury that left me loopy, finding it challenging to muster the right words to manage a conversation and, startlingly, leaving my right leg and lower right arm essentially paralyzed.

For the last 25 days a wheelchair has been my main mode of movement.  So I don't lay myself up with another head wound, the hospital requires that most of my travel is confined to rolling in a wheel chair.  I wheel it to every meal, and to all my therapy appointments.  I'm in the chair for the most part of the day.  I can walk but it's a halting gait with my weak right leg slowing me down and robbing of the steadiness that I once claimed.  When I have visited with my three young sons they saw me afflicted by the chair.  They always treated and greeted me with trendiness, glee, and respect but the chair must have changed their view of their dear old dad.

For the past five days or so, my PT has been working on the strength and coordination of my tangled legs. She has used part of the hour allotted to me on increasingly longer walks around campus and, encoring the doctors orders governing my campus movement,  let me walk in more situations around the hospital.

Yesterday, during frenetic rush hour traffic,  I went home for the first time in a month! I walked inside, catching the monkey crew by surprise.  Beckett instantly squealed "daddy" and ran froward for a full speed hug job of my knees. Rhys, a sep farther away, completed his "daddy" knee hug second with his delight of a belly laugh punctuating his hug.

I noticed Kelly eye me head to toe, rooted to the ground where he saw me walk through the front door.  Grinning, clearly noting my up right stance and at 6' 3" towering above my seated position he last saw me in the wheelchair,  he said "Daddy, are you ok now? Are you home from the hospital now?"

"I'm feeling better, lamb chop, but this is just a visit today - a long visit."

Catherine set the mode right by saying, "He's feeling good enough the doctors are letting him come home in a week.  Let's have some fun!"    

We played Frisbee in the front yard, alternating close rang soft tosses to the big guys while Beckett entrained himself running around the yard, twirling himself.  Then, Cath, concerned by my efforts playing with the crew, herded us in side to watch the Colorado based international  bike race happening in our vicinity this week.   At the beginning of the race, Kelly curled in my arms giving me a firm hug and said, "I love you dad."  Later, before fast forwarding to watch the race finally, Rhys, a notorious xl cuddle bug, sat snug in my lap watching the race.

I had the best day in 30, or more, spending sacred time with my family that day. The only problem: after dinner Cath had to take me back to Craig Hospital - a process that is now torturous, painful.  Leaving home is so hard but I only have to preform this cruel trick for one more week.  I'm going home to complete outpatient therapy on September 2!  I vow to remain affixed to a daily program to revive my body and mind like I have during my term at Craig but I am looking forward to preforming these exhaustions surrounded by my three wee beaming cheerleaders and my loving, supportive coach.

Kelly is Reading and Writing

Kelly (turning 5, 9/25) is showing early interest and aptitude reading and writing.

I just found this example of his writing on the scanner from last month.  After breakfast he asked me if he could write some words.  I said, "Sure what word would you like to write?"  Kelly thought for a second and said, "Bat."

"What letter makes the beginning sound of bat?"

Making the B sound, Kelly replied, "B, b, b, bee!"

And then the kid wrote the letter B, unassisted by me. I told him the next letters were, A and then T.  I coached him a bit with the A but he made the T without my help. "What word do you want to write next?"

Kelly, a rhyming fool, said, "Cat."

He then wrote, as you can see:
CAT
SAT
MAT
ON
MO(M)

He switch back to rhyming with PAT.  Kelly was getting frustrated writing the A in Pat, so I made the A for him - not my best work.  Either way, this was all very surprising to me that Kelly was able to produce this quantity of words.  We read stacks and stacks of books together (we recently finished James and the Giant Peach and are currently working on The Mouse and the Motorcycle), but we've done very little writing work with Kelly.  Whatever writing instruction they are providing at his pre-school, Kelly is picking it up.

For Father's Day, dear Gram Mary sent an early reader type book (we are fortunate that she sends books for almost every holiday) about a boy "helping" his dad.  Kelly, responsible for reading all the "Dad"s, "The"s and a few other common words, made me read the book with him ten times a day for several days. 

After I discovered the site with a random web search, Kelly has enthusiastically been working to complete every phonics drill and prodding me to read every terrible web book on Starfall.com.   The other night when I was putting the finishing touches on a dinner, Kelly asked if I could do the "reading game" with him.  I said I would love to do the reading game but, I'm sorry, we are about the sit down for dinner.  We'll do it first thing after, that will be fun, buddy.  With this disappointing news, Kelly flew into a hysterical tantrum, the likes of which we have not seen from him for sometime now.  What can I say, the kid really loves to read.

The boys love reading, writing, and decorating all sorts of things with stickers.

 

Three Boys = Two Miles of Fun

Last week, Beck, Kelly, Rhys and I had a blissful “boys night.”  While Catherine was hosting another worthy charity function, KRB and I struck out on adventures in the neighborhood.  My plan was to have K and R roll down the hill on their push bikes with B tagging behind on his scooter, I'd hoof it (it's only a five minute walk, at most), and we'd all chow some quality 'zza at the Bonnie Brae Tavern.  As I outfitted Rhys with his helmet, using standard 3 year-old grammatical conventions, he inquired, "You riding you bike daddy?"

Hmmm, I hadn't thought of that, Big Boy. 

I usually patrol our neighborhood bike rides on foot, so I can easily position myself for traffic control on street crossings, give Beckett an encouraging word, a push up a hill, or clean off a dirty wheel (Beckett has become irritatingly particular about the cleanliness of his machine and will often stop, yelling while pointing at some minuscule speck, "Dirty, dirty, dirty, daddy!").  On foot, I'm also better able to peel bleeding, howling monkeys off the sidewalk after a minor tumble.  And it is true of late, I have a hard time keeping up with Kelly and Rhys, even at a jog.  I gave Rhys a shinning red Specialized Hot Walk push bike for his birthday and finally convinced him not to brawl with Beckett for control of the scooter.  After only about three weeks of practice on the pushbike, Rhys can handle himself well enough to keep up with Kelly, if Kelly's not in a racing mood.

So, yes! Rhys, I will ride my bike (with the two-boy trailer attached, in case someone melts) with you and your brothers, two, tonight. 

As I mounted up the boys, ready to roll, played a game of bike tag, chasing each other in tight circles in the ally – a sight that would make their grand mothers gasp. After Beckett "helped" me pump up my tires, I ordered full speed ahead and in an instant Kelly, leading the charge, and Rhys, snapping at his heels, where almost instantly around the first corner and out of my line of sight. We practice stopping at alleys and street crossings almost every evening and Kelly and Rhys, my well drilled cadets, did a perfect job stopping and waiting for me to catch up with Beckett at every intersection.  

We rolled down the hill to the Bonnie Brae shopping area in record time and were having so much fun we sped right past the Bonnie Brae Tavern, our planned pizza stop.  After crossing University Blvd. at a safe crosswalk with a light, miraculously, Kelly and Rhys pushed right past Bonnie Brae Ice cream, bustling, as always, with a summer afternoon crowd forking over $3 a scoop for their house made creamy goodness, without whining or even asking with please and sugar on top, if we could stop for so much as a taster spoon.  When we reached the strip of old shops on South Gaylord Street, a few blocks later, Kelly and Rhys made a mad dash down the street dodging window shoppers and zigzagging around clods of restaurant goers.  In a snap they put a half-block gap on Beckett and I, at a stroll. 

Watching Beckett parade down the South Gaylord like a triumphant quarterback in a post-Superbowl celebration, smiling and squeaking, “HI!” at almost everyone reminded me of his mama - best friend to all.  Delighted by the friendly little toddler easing, expertly, on down the road – smooth as oil - on his scooter, I grinded and nodded hello to the strangers Beckett set alight with chuckles and smiles.  

B and I caught up to K and R at the corner at the far end of the block where they dutifully waited, then we all ducked into a little diner called The Local.  The Local offers the most extensive kids menu I have ever seen and breakfast fare is served all day - breakfast for dinner boys!  This was a huge ride for my little trio of tiny urban adventures.  I was interested to know how far we traveled to The Local.  After a few clicks and keystrokes, Google maps plotted and measured our circuitous route: 1.0 miles! 2.0 miles round trip!  Both Kelly and Rhys did the entire distance, unaided, on their bikes.  In order to cross Bonnie Brae Blvd. at rush hour, I snatched up Beckett and forced him to ride in the trailer, but my little man pushed his scooter all the way home, the up hill leg of our amusing two miles of fun. 

Sorry the formatting and paragraphing problems.  The page editor blew a gasket when I added the photos and I can't seem to fix it. 

Please stay tuned for "Our Summer Vacation, Part II: Halitosis and sleep deprivation in Purgatory".  I'm working on it.  Read Part I: Upholstered Roadkill by clicking here!  

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