7:27 a.m. bus stop

Johnny's been getting the urge to write again. Sometimes fiction. Sometimes non-fiction. Been a very long time, me thinks. And it hasn't been on this blog, obviously. Several reasons for that - life, career, kids, apathy, etc. Also been keeping to easy reach outlets like, well, you know. Even there, I avoid religion and politics, and general idiot talk. Nothing too deep or personal.

Fam is doing well. Truly. I have second thoughts about suburbia every once in a while and daydream about being out in country on an acreage, but we seem to be hitting on four cylinders - connection, problem solving (we need it too), behavior, grades, creativity, faith, knowledge. Boys are growing all the time, slowly making this guy feel old. Seems every year is a little faster than the previous. These truly are formative years. I get older, they quantum leap forward. And yet, it is the family life cycle I witnessed in my family of origin and will one day in my own family.

One morning this week I emphatically stood between the boys at the bus stop as if to make a physical statement. Boy, did that back fire. Boys have been horse playing a lot, particularly in the backseat of the car and they seem to be responding less and less to verbal admonishments to stop, though no serious offense has taken place, more annoyance. I recall me and my brother Jay, just out of arm's reach of our dad while he drove, irresistibly sneaking in a silent jab or tickle in the back seat, even after verbals from the command capsule. Horseplay is a boy thing. It just is. And there's research to prove it. I know this from my clinical training and life experience. For what boys lack in verbal skill, they make up for in sheer physicality. Horseplay is a way to say, hey, let's not be bored. Let's make a game. Let's challenge ourselves while we're here, waiting.

At the bus stop as I stood between the boys and Sam almost immediately shoulder bumped me. He physically put his shoulder into me silently saying, this is fun, I like you, and I want to play a game. Bump. Bump. Bump. I really tried to avoid reciprocating. I knew what he was doing. I went ahead and bumped him back. He bumped me back stronger. Through his hoodie I could feel the chiseled shoulder of a running back delivered to the soft side of dad with the verocity of a kid who missed the hard hits of the practice squad. Wow, this kid is strong for being a fifth grader. No sooner had I clambered the thought together when I get the doubly powerful shoulder from the just activated, 160 lb 8th grader to my left side who has always misjudged his own strength. Jakob's shoulder is slightly lower than mine now so he's hitting me mid arm, and with laughter and zeal like he's suddenly Domata Peco and I am Ben Roethlisberger and we're in the jungle.

I admit, it caught me a little off guard and nearly off balance. Almost immediately, a new game was afoot as shoulders from both boys come crashing into the new practice dummy in a synchronized demolition derby similar to the Malachi crunch. Fun on so many levels. I sense the challenge in their mission - beat the old man.

Funny, as I can relate to the play with my own little brother, I don't remember physical play with my dad. I don't remember ball or sports or wrestling or tickling. I don't remember a guiding hand on the shoulder or comforting word. I just don't. I remember history lessons, educational trips. I remember dad seated behind a desk and a type writer, or in the driver's seat of the car, or in the recliner watching the evening news often dozing. I remember church work: choir, finances, trustees, duty. I remember music and being carted to older siblings' performances. I remember coins jangled in his pocket in exasperation. I don't remember him physically engaging with us, other than to dole out discipline with a flick on the ear, a slap on the arm or if I was really in trouble, a spanking, usually merited.

I am not trying to throw my old man under the bus. He really was an honorable, hard working guy with a lot on his plate, including 8 kids to feed on one income, work demands, kids' demands, and later, poor health for both my mom and he. I am open to the idea that there was more nurturing there modeled than I remember. I just don't. I think that was relegated to mom's duty.

Parental physicality has been an adapted experience for me. I don't physically discipline my boys. I haven't since living in Sweden from 2007 on, and even sparingly before that. If anything, I see physical discipline with kids over the age of three as a lack of tools on a parent's part. I have come to learn that there are so many other options, and parents can keep their sanity, maintain order, and remain emotionally connected to their little darlings without getting physical. But I am not launching into therapist mode.

I have learned physical play from my boys. This band kid did not know how to throw a football until my boys started playing it in my 40's and we'd perfect our spirals and routes in the mornings while waiting for the bus. I have come to appreciate the accuracy of a well aimed nerf dart skillfully whistling by an opponent's ear as he ducks for cover. I have come to recognize the value and need for spontaneous fun and developing rules only on an as needed basis.

The reality is, in default mode, I can relate a lot more these days to the overworked, stressed, easily provoked, father of my teen years than I ever have before - the daily grind of career and related paperwork, putting a dent in projects around the house, working toward future goals for the family - the need to stay connected and loving, yes, I said loving, can easily get lost in the day to day. Without intentionally putting that hat on I am not sure where we would be. I am not sure where my parents would have been without it.

And so I find myself back at the bus stop between the two Malachis on this unseasonably warm, foggy December morning. Neighbors' Christmas lights provide a warm glow across the dim street. I am here with these boys in their youth on a diminishing time line, starting to get knocked around like a rag doll, not quite knowing the best response to this play. Yet I don't want to spoil the fun or reveal I fear them besting me when working as a team against me.  I have recognized for some time that my physical prowess - strength, speed, agility, dexterity - in part or whole - will be eclipsed someday, and rightly so, by these young lions. But not this morning. They still need to know who's boss. As they pull back to synchronize yet another charge at the old guy, I step out of the path of their oncoming splat so that their hoodied heads nearly collide together before they can break momentum. They know the old man got them and they quickly recalibrate for a new strategy.

"Uh, we should probably knock it off guys." This thing has the feel it could continue to escalate. Plus, I don't want to freak out the approaching neighbor and her son walking toward the bus stop.

Right about then the bus pulls around the corner seeking its morning passengers. The guys' immediate focus turns to disembarking and they gather their things, cross the street, and wait for the bus driver's choir director like cue for to proceed through the open door of bus. These remaining mornings together at the bus stop are finite as my boys' quickening cadence toward adulthood hastens. Yet, the things we experience here may last a life time.