Katie gave me a cup of coffee, I got the boys bowls of oatmeal. Cal and Mac then went outside and played for a while. I had breakfast, showered, dressed, puttered around the house and felt awake enough to suggest going to the park maybe two hours later.
There are a few parks within walking distance of our place: the enormous athletic field with the small dog park adjacent to it that features the great, slanted climbing tree, the park with the pond, ducks and the shorter climbing trees and then Beatty Park, which has the great jungle gym. We ended up at this last park, climbed, chased each other and made like major goofballs for a half hour or so. The game of choice was something I called The Tickleinator, which had me relentlessly marching after the fleeing kids while providing an accompanying soundtrack: "Chi-chi-chiiiih, chi-chi-chiiiih, chi-chi-chiiiih." Kids get caught, Dad tickles, kids laugh until they hate the tickling, kids are released. Repeat as necessary. Game stops when Dad gets bored.
At that point, Cal, sitting on the park's slide and looking into the sky, said simply, "I feel so happy."
The best thing a father can hear. The very best. I hope he has the ability to find such moments forever.
A moment later Mac said, "Cool! That cloud looks like a dinosaur head!" And it did for a moment or two before it became a rooster, then a guy screaming with a tongue curling out of his mouth and finally a charging ram before it dissipated into wisphood proper.
All of this was followed by a 20-min walk to Leederville and Subway. Cal and Mac split a seafood sub—I can't believe my older boy managed to talk his brother into sharing his new passion, given how picky Mac can be—and I went for a meatball sub. We ate them at one of the sidewalk tables as it was a beautifully sunny afternoon.
"Cal, slow down. You're gonna be sitting there without anything to eat and I know you'll be eyeballing our food." He chewed a few mouthfuls before going back to the wolfing. Mac is always the last one to finish eating; he gives Cal a few pieces of food once the eyeballing starts. So do I.
We walk home. Cal grabs my hand.
"Thanks, kid. I know you're not going to want to do that for much longer. But you can always grab my hand if you feel like it." He hung on for much of the walk home, until we got to the big park, and at one point Mac clutched my right hand.
Mac is a lot less affectionate and I'm often apologizing to Katie or her mother, Louise, when Mac is standoffish at hellos, goodbyes and bedtimes. In fact, I have to prompt him for a kiss when he walks into our home or he's dropped off at his mother's. That fact always gets woven into those apologies to Katie and Louise: "Don't worry, he doesn't even kiss his father that much." No, he's more likely to climb on top of me while I'm lying on the couch watching a movie, as he did yesterday afternoon during Hellboy II: The Golden Army. Mac really has a warm and good heart, but he's a complex kid. Which is understandable.
A few times during the weekend I said, "Wow. The next time you're here you'll probably have a baby sister."
The threat of not seeing Cal and Mac had been suspended over my head a few times during the last half decade. Intellectually, I knew it was unlikely that I would never see them again, but there have been times when the emotions have won that internal battle.
Turbulence gives way to growth, things move on, and we manage to find a lot of happiness in clouds, chasing, climbing and typical Sundays that start with a grouchy father and his noisy sons.
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