I took the men down to the oval, we took a soccer ball and we took the football. I will now equate the football to the third anti-christ. It turned the boys into testosterone fuelled, green eyed thugs.
Happily booting the ball over the goal posts, the game descended into near mini fisticuffs within two minutes. I had to yank Beau off Chick who was pinned down.
Beau was heavy to pull off, he had boy anger. His eyes were green and teary and he screamed at me when I got him up. I was taken aback. I hadn’t been spoken to like that before, not from him. My eldest son had erupted.
I quietened them back down after a few minutes. My heart raced all afternoon thinking about the altercation. I was analysing his moment. I was over thinking my reaction and as I drove away that night, I just wanted to hug him (again).
We got home after footy and he was a little awkward. I was quiet. He turned up at the dinner table and was gentle like he always is and when I left he cuddled me and we exchanged ‘love you’s. I hate leaving on those nights. It feels unfinished. I don’t get the chance to elongate the emotional repair with my sons.
There is no guidebook to parenting, you are completely on your own. It’s just you and your intuition. Parents have mere moments to make a bad situation palatable and good situations memorable.
Daddy is slowing becoming Dad. And this Dad is starting to find his new feet as we start treading into the precursory tormented years of teenagers.