"Dad, My Goldfish isn't Swimming"

One of Braden's favorite things to do is punch me in the stomach. I'm not talking about a pat or a slap either - I'm talking about a Popeye-after-eating-his-spinach punch that starts as far back as he can reach and ends in my belly. If the mood strikes him, he will head-butt me in the gut instead, usually with a running start of several steps. And I have to be paying careful attention if I ever find myself lying on the floor while Braden's awake, because he will jump into the air and land on my midsection with legs bent and malice of forethought. The only response to all of this is, of course, to roughhouse and tickle him until he begs for forgiveness.

Braden looking good at his Christmas program.

It will come as no surprise then that he is a charter member of the "Bad Boys Club". This is the name he and his friend Landon have taken for themselves at their preschool, and their primary functions appear to be chasing, and subsequently being chased by, girls during recess. One such child - Jordan - recently caught him and kissed him on the back. The whole affair left him forced to name her his "arch-enemy" (his words.) His teacher says he is smart and well-behaved, and he earns a green check mark every day, but beneath that sweet exterior lies a bad-boy, don't you doubt it.

Braden and Landon (The Bad Boys) on their school float for the Christmas parade.

Tuesday night we sent him upstairs to put on his pajamas and brush his teeth in preparation for bed. Shelley and I were visiting on the couch in the living room when we heard him call from the door of his bedroom, "Dad, my goldfish isn't swimming". He got a 2-gallon aquarium for Christmas, and we set it up and bought some fish over the weekend. We arrived at his bedroom to assess the scene, and I told him after a brief investigation that his goldfish was dead. "I'm sorry buddy" is the comfort I offered as he leaned into my leg. With a pat on the back of his head, I turned to go downstairs to get the fish net. But before I'd taken two steps, he was leaning into his mother, his face buried deep into her shoulder, and he was crying. Not a loud, wailing cry, but the soft, heartbroken sobbing that loss brings. It sounded like a little of his innonence, rising in sad waves, gone forever. When he could finally speak, he protested to Shelley "but his eyes are still open". So death was added to the palette with which my youngest son will color his life.

Yet life goes on. Yesterday, he spent a part of his Target gift card - also a Christmas gift - on a "Rock 'Em, Sock 'Em" robot game, a smaller version of the same toy his father owned as a child. True to his personality, he has re-named it his "Whack 'Em, Smack 'Em" robots.

Finally, he paid me a remarkable compliment on Friday after we had lunch at the hospital (the Subway in our cafeteria had a grand opening special, and Subway is the boys' favorite place in the world to eat). He was getting a haircut, and talking to his barber about this and that. He mentioned that it was almost his Dad's birthday, and the barber asked him what he was going to give me. He couldn't really think of anything to tell her, so she asked him what I liked to do in my spare time. She mentioned golf, sports, hunting. He shook off her suggestions, then told her "he likes to play with his boys". When Sheila called to tell me that story, I felt for a moment like I might just be getting something right...