Life in a household with three sons is, as one might imagine, a place loaded with mischief, fun, and testosterone. My sons are all young men now. Jeremy is 27, married, and lives in Costa Rica where he works for IBM and is making a very nice career with a fine company. Joshua is nearly 25, plans to be married next May, and manages a ranch as part of the family business. And Trevor is 21 and is about to enter his final year in college at the University of California in Santa Barbara.
But when they were younger, they made for an active--sometimes chaotic--household. My job when they were little was to give them a bath after dinner, dress them in their pajamas, and settle them down by reading them or telling them a story. Now, I will freely admit that I never really got the concept of "settling the boys down". First off, I understand from fathers of girls that this process is rarely necessary. But with boys--especially three of them--it is a foregone conclusion. Still, I will here and now admit that I am guilty of stirring the pot with the boys from time to time--encouraging shenanigans and, yes, even being part of the mischief when I was supposed to be exerting some authority. There were more than a few times when I got them cleaned up and in their PJ's before an all-out wrestling match--or what I used to call "bear-cubbing" would ensue on the floor of their bedroom. Instead of having them bedded down and relaxed, they would finally crawl into their beds sweaty, charged up, and ready to go another few rounds with Dad.
I remember one time when my wife was away at a meeting and I was asked to babysit. Now, this was also a bit of a misnomer in that the four of us viewed Mom's meetings as the equivalent of Guys' Night Out. Jeremy and I were watching Monday Night Football while the two younger guys were upstairs. What were they doing up there? I had no clue. After all, it was a good game! About the time Mom came home from her meeting, we heard some crying upstairs. We went up to investigate, but it was weird: we could hear Trevor crying but we couldn't find him. Finally, I followed the sound to the closet and discovered that he was stuck halfway down the laundry chute which went from our closet to the laundry room one floor below. I quickly determined that, as long as he was crying, it meant he was breathing so he was okay. But this clearly represented an emergency. I am happy to report that we did not have to call the fire department (I had visions of seeing them hack away at the cupboards in the laundry room with axes to free the young lad) and that we were able, with God's help, to get him out on our own. When he finally emerged and got settled down a little, I asked him "Why would you try to crawl down the laundry chute????" His reply: "Josh told me that Santa Claus did it and I should give it a try." Sigh.
On another occasion, I decided to take the boys (the youngest was not born yet) and their grandfather to a minor league baseball game. I was pretty sure--given the young ages of the boys--that we'd be lucky to last until the sixth inning, but we thought it would be fun nonetheless. In a moment of self-proclaimed genius, I bought them peanuts once we got through the gates instead of candy. Why? Peanuts meant they would have to shell their treat, which would keep them busy for at least three innings. And that's about how it worked out. By about the 4th or 5th inning, Jeremy was starting to get interested in watching the game. Josh was sitting at the end of the row, happily grubbing around in his pulled-out T-shirt for any remaining peanuts that he had missed. This activity got us through the sixth inning and--as the boys seemed happily occupied and the game was close--my father-in-law and I decided to hang around for another inning or two. At the end of the 7th inning, I looked down the row to check on Josh. He had by this time gotten out of his seat and was sitting on the concrete in front of the seat with his back to the field. He seemed to be having fun doing whatever he was doing, so I turned back to the game. Another inning went by. I checked on Josh again. He was still down there, so I bent down to see what he was up to. I discovered that the people seated in the row behind us had left, but not before dropping a whole pile of nacho chips and cheese on the floor. Josh was (and had for the last 10 minutes or so) reaching for the chips one at a time, dipping them in the cheese sauce, and having himself another game-time snack. My father-in-law and I chuckled over this development, and he asked me what I was going to do about it. I replied "Well, let's first agree that--if his mom were here--Josh would be halfway to the emergency room right now to get his stomach pumped. But the way I look at it, he's already been exposed to whatever is in that stuff, it's keeping him occupied, it's a good game, so I say--Play Ball!"
I will conclude the story by reporting that a) we did see the rest of the game and the home team won; b) Josh was just fine, with no apparent side effects as a result of his culinary adventure; and c) yes, I did get into a little trouble with my wife when we got home.
There are loads of other stories I could share that would make our family life seem like the inspiration for Chevy Chase's Family Vacation movies.
Suffice to say that I am blessed and honored to have three fine sons. They make me proud. I remember the day Jeremy was born. I held him and came to a startling realization: he was the first person in my life who I loved at first sight. And it would happen two more times after that.
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