I was under strict orders from Thelma last night to come straight home with Braeden after Scouts. No dillying. No dallying. (Yes, I know "dillying" is not a word, but it should be.) I had every intention of being obedient when I set out from the Church. I let Colin Park ride in the front. Braeden sullenly slouched in the back seat because I had presumably ignored his cries of "shotgun" on the way to the van. I let Braeden move to the front after we dropped Colin off, but I let him know that his reaction was out of line.
"Colin is older than you, he was our guest, 'shotgun' is not a binding legal contract..." And so forth.
"But Dad, I just was looking forward to the two of us being together for a little while."
I felt more than minor pangs of guilt. Here it was, about 8:30 in the evening, and I had given Braeden my undivided attention for about the seven minutes it takes to drive to the church building. That was all.
That has been the case more and more lately. I'm either out the door before anyone is awake in the morning (as was the case today) or I spend a late night on the phone and sleep in until Thelma and the kids have already started school. Most nights I get home so late that we have time for little more than dinner and the bedtime routine of pajamas, brushing, scriptures and prayer.
Back to Braeden and my predicament. We were only three or four blocks from the house. I decided to risk the wrath of Thelma. I drove past our turn and continued into the cul-de-sac that marks the dead end of our neighborhood. Braeden looked at me in puzzlement.
"What are you doing?"
"I wonder how many homes are for sale in Pinehurst?"
Braeden smiled.
"There's one. There's two."
By the way, there are fully eleven homes for sale in Pinehurst. Braeden and I counted them all. It took about 15 extra minutes. That is a 200% increase in "quality" time. Of course, Thelma wanted to know what took us so long when we came strolling up the stairs at 8:45. I interrupted Braeden's response and sent him off to get ready for bed before a fuller explanation could confirm how crazy I am.
With Braeden brushing his teeth and Thelma back to either planning school or Christmas, I made my way into kiss Mark good night.
"Dad, do you remember when Braeden was little and you laid in his bed and you used to tell him bed time stories? I was wondering if you could tell me some stories? Like maybe tonight?"
I felt more than minor pangs of guilt.
"Mark, you're right. I should tell you bed time stories. It's too late tonight, but let's do it tomorrow night, OK? I'll make up a funny story for you. How does that sound?"
Mark smiled.
A few minutes after nine o'clock this morning Mark called me at work to remind me about the bed time stories. He hadn't seen me leave for work and he was afraid I had forgotten about our appointment. I hadn't. I looked forward to it all day.
At 8:30 or so this evening I was ready to begin. Mark was tucked in his bed next to me. Braeden heard us getting started and came tearing into the room to listen from his bed. Emma was close behind asking if she could stay for the story. I put them both under a vow of silence. This, afterall, was Mark's story. They had had their turns when they were younger.
It wasn't long though until we were all laughing at our silly interpretation of the Three Little Pigs. I'd say things like, "And do you know what happened next?" or "Now what do you think that wolf did?" Then I tried to weave their ideas into the story. I believe we came up with a thoroughly unique telling. When else has the story of Three Little Pigs concluded with a hygienically rehabilitated wolf protecting his porcine companions from a pack of demented squirrels.
An extra fifteen minutes on Wednesday night with Braeden. Another fifteen tonight with Mark. It felt great to be a Dad again.
"Colin is older than you, he was our guest, 'shotgun' is not a binding legal contract..." And so forth.
"But Dad, I just was looking forward to the two of us being together for a little while."
I felt more than minor pangs of guilt. Here it was, about 8:30 in the evening, and I had given Braeden my undivided attention for about the seven minutes it takes to drive to the church building. That was all.
That has been the case more and more lately. I'm either out the door before anyone is awake in the morning (as was the case today) or I spend a late night on the phone and sleep in until Thelma and the kids have already started school. Most nights I get home so late that we have time for little more than dinner and the bedtime routine of pajamas, brushing, scriptures and prayer.
Back to Braeden and my predicament. We were only three or four blocks from the house. I decided to risk the wrath of Thelma. I drove past our turn and continued into the cul-de-sac that marks the dead end of our neighborhood. Braeden looked at me in puzzlement.
"What are you doing?"
"I wonder how many homes are for sale in Pinehurst?"
Braeden smiled.
"There's one. There's two."
By the way, there are fully eleven homes for sale in Pinehurst. Braeden and I counted them all. It took about 15 extra minutes. That is a 200% increase in "quality" time. Of course, Thelma wanted to know what took us so long when we came strolling up the stairs at 8:45. I interrupted Braeden's response and sent him off to get ready for bed before a fuller explanation could confirm how crazy I am.
With Braeden brushing his teeth and Thelma back to either planning school or Christmas, I made my way into kiss Mark good night.
"Dad, do you remember when Braeden was little and you laid in his bed and you used to tell him bed time stories? I was wondering if you could tell me some stories? Like maybe tonight?"
I felt more than minor pangs of guilt.
"Mark, you're right. I should tell you bed time stories. It's too late tonight, but let's do it tomorrow night, OK? I'll make up a funny story for you. How does that sound?"
Mark smiled.
A few minutes after nine o'clock this morning Mark called me at work to remind me about the bed time stories. He hadn't seen me leave for work and he was afraid I had forgotten about our appointment. I hadn't. I looked forward to it all day.
At 8:30 or so this evening I was ready to begin. Mark was tucked in his bed next to me. Braeden heard us getting started and came tearing into the room to listen from his bed. Emma was close behind asking if she could stay for the story. I put them both under a vow of silence. This, afterall, was Mark's story. They had had their turns when they were younger.
It wasn't long though until we were all laughing at our silly interpretation of the Three Little Pigs. I'd say things like, "And do you know what happened next?" or "Now what do you think that wolf did?" Then I tried to weave their ideas into the story. I believe we came up with a thoroughly unique telling. When else has the story of Three Little Pigs concluded with a hygienically rehabilitated wolf protecting his porcine companions from a pack of demented squirrels.
An extra fifteen minutes on Wednesday night with Braeden. Another fifteen tonight with Mark. It felt great to be a Dad again.
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