This is Where You Hit Me with the Brick

Everyone is a great parent til they get hit with a brick - Mike Tyson

“Why dad, why?”

I told my three-year-old son that he should climb off the four-foot stack of pallets in our backyard.

“Because, buddy…”

“Why?”

I couldn’t answer, just ran down the list in my head:

Not safe, too high, you’ll fall, your brother is climbing up, there’s bricks.

Louis had enough of me thinking.

“I said WHY, dad.”

“Because! I don’t need a reason. Okay? Because, because!”

When my toddler doesn’t get a "why” answer fast enough, he gets impatient, and reminds me: “I said why.” Sometimes I delay or equivocate because I realize I can’t explain what I once considered a simple concept, like fog or trust, or Massachusetts. Sometimes I don’t have the patience for the kids to explore their surroundings and learn useful life skills like balancing on pallets.

Why? Because we need to leave for preschool in three minutes.

Why? Because I suddenly need to be on my phone.

Why? …Actually…I don’t know.

Sometimes I have the strength of character to reconsider why. When I’m not blinded by my need to be right or my zero-tolerance parent-ego that demands my child respond in robotic obedience, I can be persuaded to let my kids take risks. I stepped onto a ledge and put a hand on the stack of pallets, testing them with a shake, expecting wobbles, there were some, but minimal.

“Okay, as long as—”

THUD.

I stagger. Pain shoots up my shin.

What the f—

“KENNY! Son of a gun! DAG-Nabbit!” My transformation into 1970’s Georgia car mechanic was startling for all of us.

While I was lecturing Louis, Ken struck my shin with a brick, knocked me off balance, and I fell into the five-foot tall thorn bush.

“WHY? Why did you do that? Why did you HIT ME WITH A BRICK?”

I’m asking the questions now.

Ken, our two-year-old, isn’t interested. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t seem to care about the attempted murder, just smiles with polite concern, like I’m a drunk man close-talking him on a subway.

“I said WHY, Ken!”

Was I being a bit dramatic? Maybe.

“Everybody inside we’re done out here. Now. RIGHT NOW.”

Grab them, pull them off the pallets, human-cannon them inside. Another win in the parenting column: Ken is crying, Louis is crying, I’m bleeding, we’re late.

“Look bud,” I roll up my pant leg and show Ken, “this is where you hit me with the brick.”

There’s a spot of blood, a tiny bump, and Ken is unmoved. “Do you see it? That really hurt.” Sometimes I ask the boys when they cry from a fall or accident, if it hurts or if they were scared from the event. I must have just been scared, I thought, picking thorns out of my hand.

“I’m putting my shoes on, and we’re getting in the car. Don’t move. And don’t you dare eat the potting soil.”

Parenting forces bizarre commands from your mouth, words you never considered putting in the same sentence.

“Do not put Christmas ornaments in the toilet.”

“Stop hiding rocks in your diaper.”

“Don’t chainsaw your brother!”

“Buddy…you can’t throw bricks at people.”

Could I have stopped this whole scenario before it started? Sure. “Everybody off the pallets come inside where I can surveil you.” But that’s no fun.

A thousand years ago when it was fall, I’d open the kitchen door that leads to the backyard, and leave it open. I’d cook dinner, they’d play. Kids want free play, they need autonomy, and they love experimenting, and strangely enough, adults enjoy these things, too. Maybe my kids…are actual people? No. …Are they? Maybe. I read The Anxious Generation like everybody else, and I loved it. We’re all going nuts here! But different stuff makes us nuts.

Some parents have a hard time letting their kids have free play because they’re nervous about what their kids could get up to: what if they hurt themselves? What if they hurt someone else? What if they get stolen away? What if they don’t need me as much as I think they do? And then there’s my issue: what if they make a mess? And then I have to clean it up—what happens then? But that’s about 90% of parenting toddlers: the mess. It’s either messy, about to be messy, or was just recently messy.

I remember when my brother and I would make potions in the upstairs bathroom, just pumping a ton of hand soap into a cup, mix in some shampoo, stir it around with an old toothbrush. My mom would see it and simply let it happen. NOT ON MY WATCH! My kid started making potion, and I said ohhh the soap prices Louie, THE SOAP PRICES! I am cheap, and I buy the generic soap—Market Basket brand, MORE FOR YOUR DOLLAR SOAP. WHY DO I CARE ABOUT THIS? Can I let them be kids?

This cliche is not easy—to remember this simple concept requires practice and intention. It is not the easy way, because it is messy, loud, wild, and sometimes painful.

So next time my kids are outside playing, I’m not going to worry about it. Because I’m a changed man. And because my wife asked me to get rid of the pallets.

“Why dad, WHY?”

Because.

Ken hit me with a brick.