Friday, April 3, 2009

Fun, Fun, Fun

Fun, despite his name has been the one who has kept me most worried at times. He fell out the window - stitches. He rode his tricycle off the porch - stitches. He canon-balled off the sofa - stitches. He dived out of his high-chair - stitches. He crashed his dirtbike - stitches. He is fun. He is funny. He is quiet. From his earliest days he would slip around like a cat. Busy. Observant. Active. Silent. I would call out, "What are you doing, Fun?" Silence. "Whatcha' up to Fun?" Silence. Upon which I would drop whatever I was doing and go hunt for Fun. I would find a happy little buzz-top boy, busy - building, drawing, organizing, cleaning, playacting. "Fun, everything okay?" Silence. Then a wide grin and bashful turn of the buzz-top and sometimes, his squeaky high pitch reply, "Yup."

He was just five. I was pulling weeds in my big old messy garden. Fun was playing in the treehouse. I called out. "Whatcha' up to Fun?" Silence. "Fun, you okay?" Silence. Upon which, I dropped my weeds, walked around the corner of the Shop from Hell and there hung Fun, kicking, struggling, grunting suspended off the end of a tree limb by his shirt collar. We had nearly lost Fun just the day before too, at the Highland Games in Chatham. The games were located in a park next to the Thames River. Deep. Steep. Fun hated water and as a result was a very poor swimmer.
"What is he wearing?" asked the event organizer. "A purple tee-shirt - and - plaid shorts," I offered. "What's his name?" "Fun," shaking my head. MacFun. The single most common given name bestowed upon male Scots. The bleakness of the situation dawned upon me. Every other little boy, in a park, at a Highland games, with Scots heritage, was wearing plaid shorts and heeded the name MacFun. Only, my MacFun would never reply...if he still could.

Panic. Cold hot panic. "We'll watch your other children, while you go look," offered some very, ancient, blue-haired, kindly, grandmotherly, types in a blur of Stewart, MacGregor and sensible Clarks. "NO!" I carefully shouted, with as much controlled respect as I could sanely muster. After all, one of them was a MacGregor. And take my other babies too? No! I don't think so! And I remember that I did not even thank them.

So I dashed through the park like the crazed mother I had instantly become, shouting, "Fun!, Fun!" upon which dozens of strange men turned and observed me in silence. Of course no one answered, Scots are like that - parsimonious in words. I suppose now is as good a time as any to let it be known, that that was the first time I have ever been in a men's public washroom. Some drug-addicted looking teen boys offered to help, but I only recall them backing away. And then. There he was. Fun. On the marching field. Step. One, two, three. Halt. Attention. Step. One, two, three. Halt. Attention. Salute. "Fun!" I screamed. "What are you doing?!" Big grin, shy downward twist of the buzzy-topped head. "I'm having fun," he squeaked.

8 comments:

Confusifying Linguification said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Confusifying Linguification said...

I read books as a child, I never broke a bone, the only stiches I have ever had were from my wisdom tooth extraction - and my mother still attributes most of her gray hair to the stresses I caused her. I can't wait until she reads this!

Patricia said...

My "Fun" was "Casey". He was 6 years old before I felt like I could even blink if he was awake, and then only occasionally. Of all my children, he was responsible for my most extreme emotions in either direction - but always the most fun. My 2yo grandson Gavin (Nick's boy) is just like Casey. Gavin had his first set of stitches at around 18 months. Nick is frequently heard saying, "I can't figure out how I got Casey's kid." But the kid sure is fun.

Love this post, Decadent.

Mental P Mama said...

Oh the dreaded silence...but so much Fun;)

Jeanne said...

Love you

Leila said...

I feel your dread :)

It's amazing we've all made it this far :)

Caution Flag said...

I'm a nervous wreck after reading this. How old is he now?

Decadent Housewife said...

19 with two more dirt-bike crashes and two MVA's all of which he walked away from except the broken arm and jimmied leg.

Also I didn't mention the nose-dive from his crib, but I caught him by the back of his sweater just two inches from smacking the floor.