Dad/Child Bonding 101

G Frenzy and I were in the basement. I had suggested we go there to play. It's cold outside.

G prefers to stay away from the unfinished, creepy dark hole. Recently, however, Conquistadora and I gave it a face lift by throwing down rows of used carpet and bringing in a dirt stained plastic slide from outside. And she painted the walls in Light Ugly. A real Disneyland.

There we were, the two of us, father and son. I had just brought down some recycled paper and crayons for the Arts and Crafts phase of our basement bonding. He had brought blue and yellow colored yarn and cut up straw pieces to make necklaces or a lasso or a kitty noose or something creative - his contribution to the Arts and Crafts phase of our basement bonding.

He had quickly abandoned Art Time and was on to the City Planning Phase, trying to connect some train track pieces, each sold separately by the Thomas the Train money-sucking racket. He was trying to connect the hilly portion of the track but was running out of table space. He was in the premature stage of getting frustrated where the internal fury builds and crescendos with loud scream and a track piece getting launched across the room followed by his little feet pounding away on the floor, away from the seemingly insurmountable obstacle in his little life.

We have a solution to this problem before it gets out of hand. I always have solutions. I have coined myself The Solutionizer, something Conquistadora dismisses with an eye roll and a sharp hand wave as if shooing away her bullfrog of a husband.

No problem, I thought. I was ready to impart a valuable life lesson onto my son. Plus, I have been making and building things for years. Okay? I am 39. You are 4. I have a 35 year edge on you. Listen to me.

Connecting kiddie train tracks is so easy. It was so obvious that we needed to angle the track line diagonally across the table to make more room for the completion of the choo-choo infrastructure. The word "we" is where it all went wrong.

Now in full pissy mode, he was doing a small huff through his nose followed by a throaty noise, like a horse who is about to heel kick a nosy person standing right behind it. He probably could sense The Solutionizer was approaching.

I said to him "We need to work together on this ... what if we turn it this way?"

The throaty horse nose got louder, followed by a scornful look deep into my eyes as if I was some idiot, compliant friend of his on the playground who had proposed that they eat their sandwiches at the picnic table instead of hanging from the monkey bars. He stormed out of the room, up the basement steps and slammed the door behind him.

At least he didn't toss the track piece off the wall. I did. Broke it. You little ungrateful, unwilling brat. Who is the Dad here? Storming out like a maniac. I am the stormer out of the room guy in this house, young man!!!!

I came out of the basement and found him in the living room where he was leaning against the couch in contemplation, going over the sequence of events that had just gone down. Something had not gone his way and he was disrupted by a parent with a suggestion, a teaching moment or in his eyes, an evil-doer trying to mess with his architectural design.

With the low, patient tone of a therapist, I asked him if he was mad at me. He nodded. I asked him if he would have preferred I let him put the train pieces together on his own. He nodded.

I thought about telling him about my vast experience building and constructing things like pre-assembled cribs and pre-assembled bikes and plastic blocks for the baby. But I refrained. I told him that next time Daddy would give him some space to build on his own and if he needed my help that he could asked for it.

He liked this idea and shot a quick grin down towards his feet.

Shortly after our moment, he said he wanted to go back to the basement. Alone. Minutes later after descending into the dark hole known as our basement, he came up and said he wanted me to make him a peanut and jelly sandwich.

Ohhhhhhh, now you want my help building something????? I would need two pieces of whole wheat bread (I think the latest studies have shown that white flour causes kids to become bi-polar) and lather it with grape jelly and that nasty tasting, sugarless peanut butter that Conquistadora buys that somehow makes her Health Mom.

The little foreman sent his worker to go build. Apparently I can build things for him, but not with him.

I thought about asking him to help me make the sandwich so he could see and learn that we can bond with each other and work together on building things so someday he can make fun of me to his friends that his Dad can't build anything around the house but lunch.

I took the easier option. I made the sandwich and ate it. I made another, and ate it. Then I went to the bathroom. Five minutes later, I heard little knuckles banging on the door and "Daaaaad, wheeerrrreee is myyy sandwwwiiiicchhh?"

Go make your own F-IN sandwhich!!!!!!!!! I said under my breath. "Just moment buddy, the chef is busy right now," I said in a peaceful, loving tone.

"Ugggghhhh!!!!!" he whined with the whine of whines and stomped away, again. Like earlier, he was pissed. His Dad, the incompetent, nosy assbag.