Malaise II (Son of Malaise)

I will not be Fox Sports’ “Next Great Sportswriter.” I didn’t want the friggin' thing anyway.

The contest was one of those things where you get out of it what you put into it, and I admittedly made minimal effort, contributing a grand total of three posts to the contest. So, this isn’t sour grapes, insomuch that I don’t feel like my three blog posts should have written me a ticket into the finals. I didn’t put anything into it, and the results show that.

Conversely, it is sour grapes in that if I had put any sort of effort into it at all, I would be talking how awesome it would be to be a finalist today. Some of the finalists ... just aren't very good.

***
As soon as I hit “publish” for the below post the other night, I heard a thump.

Recall that we purchased a new mattress and box springs some weeks back. Because of its newness, the set sits about 8 inches higher than the old worn-out set did; when I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, my feet hang about 6 or 7 inches off the floor. I almost need a step stool to climb into bed at night.

Maybe three nights a week, Son will climb into bed with us at various points in the night. (Bad idea, I know, but it’s not like he’s 9.) He can climb into the new bed with much effort; usually, when he comes into our room at those times, one of us just lift him up into bed and plop him down between us.

Friday night was one of those nights; he woke up shortly after Mommy had gone to bed and Daddy had started blogging about how awful his mood has been as of late. He took his pillow and blankie and climbed into bed with Mommy. I paid it no mind; as is the routine, as soon as I’m ready for bed, I’ll put him in his own bed and call it a night.

I wrote for a little over an hour, and after hitting “publish,” I heard a thump and a cry. I scampered into our room and found Son on the floor between the bed and my dresser. He didn’t break anything; I think he was just scared from the fall, and it was a really long fall for him. I picked him up and took him into the living room, but he was fairly inconsolable; he kept on crying for Mommy. She asked me to bring him back in the bedroom and lay him down in there, where his tears dried up shortly thereafter and he went to Slumberland.

So, in addition to everything else, I’m a bad parent.

***
I wish I could bottle up weekends like the one we had last weekend; the memories are a salve to my aching soul, and it’s a place I’ve gone back to several times over the past couple of days.

Perhaps on its face, the weekend might not have been anything special or out of the ordinary, but it was special just by virtue of its existence. Son and I spent most of it outside, where he played and played and played and played till he was exhausted. The weekend was just a great Daddy-Son bonding time. For instance, on Sunday, I pulled him around in his wagon for a couple of laps in the front yard, then out to a place in the yard where I unsuccessfully tried to dig up a small maple tree that is growing out of a large apple tree. He watched me in wonderment.

We sat in the shade together during breaks and consumed fluids, then when I gave up hope of getting the tree pulled out, I pulled Son back up to the house in his wagon. He had a look on his face like there was no place else in the world he'd rather be.

We had small moments like those all weekend. It's the kind of rewarding thing that makes the sleepless nights, the accidents, the dirty diapers, and everything else about parenting all worthwhile.

***
So. What the hell's wrong with me? I don't know. I'll shake this funk, and look back on this post some weeks from now and say, "Wow, that was pretty silly."