Elasticity

Last night, the Chiefs and Broncos went head-to-head on Thursday night football. I had just gotten back from a week of travel. Now, pre-baby, this would mean I would enjoy a veg couch session to relax and recharge my internal batteries before heading into conference-call Friday. Post-baby, this cultural cornerstone is no longer available to me.

King Summit (my son’s daddy-dubbed nickname and sufficiently earned) now requires stimulation during all waking hours. And by stimulation, I mean that if you aren’t paying attention to him, he will let you know it with pipes that would make Luciano Pavarotti downright covetous. My always-prepared warrior wife was wardrobe-ready in full tennis attire for stimulation act #1. We loaded up the King in his stroller and pounded the 15-minute pavement walk toward tennis bliss. We arrived enthusiastically to the court and then looked at each other in puzzlement. In our haste to get going, we somehow managed to forget the two most paramount components of playing the sport that was invented in 1873 by Major Walter Wingfield: racquets and balls. After channeling my inner John McEnroe, I managed to shine a light on the positive side of this scenario. This meant Mom and Dad got an extra 45 minutes of cardio in an effort to stimulate our son.

After our encore performance on the court, we got back to the house at 5:30 p.m. Now it was time to execute on operation “good time.” This operation consisted of grilling and wining. And by wining, I don’t mean whining. I mean the act of popping a bottle of cab and decanting it for 60 minutes prior to consumption. It was now 6:20 and kickoff was about to commence. We had our food (The King always ate first) and our vino, and the big screen had our entertainment at the ready. The only thing that was extra tonight was the cheerleader to my left.

For some reason, our 5-month-old was a bit cantankerous. Now as any parent of a young one knows, babies don’t need a reason to get vocal. Daddy boot camp taught me eight reasons, but my favorite one will always be #8 . . . “just because.” Don’t we all wish we could use this one? I mean, what if we all had a once-a-year “return to toddler form” where we had a right to scream for what we want without fear of judgment or repercussion? Who wouldn’t sign up for that? Stop it, you dissenters. You know you would. Now, back on topic. As parents, we each have our tolerance for the cries. I personally have a very, very low threshold. I’m not quite sure if it’s the decibels that do it or my incessant need to fix problems. Either way, I’ve got some work to do in this department. My warrior wife, however, is a saint when it comes to tolerance.

After kickoff occurred and I slowly immersed myself into the throngs of the gridiron rumble unfolding in front of me, I noticed something peculiar. Our little Pavarotti had suddenly become silent. I looked to my left, and there was my pulchritudinous wife eating her French Laundry-esque grilled cuisine with her right hand. All seemed normal. I then became curious as to what her left hand may be up to, so I leaned forward for a look-see. And I quickly saw the answer to the riddle. Our lead in-home opera savant was not crooning for a reason. This would be because her left pinkie was inside his mouth, massaging his teething gums.

Taking in the scene, I reflected at the elasticity being a parent brings to your life. Your capabilities of what is in reach, multitasking competency and overall willingness to be practical increase to levels I never believed tenable. Hence the reason I invented a rap melody and sing it to our young spawn on many an occasion. It’s quick and simple but tells a story of which I’m certain Eminem would be proud. In my best poetic vocals, I sing to him . . . “You’re fantastic, I’m bombastic but WE are elastic.”