In the amended words of Braveheart: “I give homage to Bill Watterson.” Anyone who has read Calvin and Hobbes and watched Braveheart will understand these references.
My son is Calvin. In the actual words of Braveheart’s girlfriend “He declares it to me, I swear it.” My son plays in the backyard. He comes inside with grass stained knees. He manipulates me to maximize his time outdoors. He has a vivid imagination. His hair sticks up at odd angles. He even has a Calvin-esque face.
My son is Calvin.
Just today we were outside digging a hole because we had nothing better to do. It began to thunder and my daughter said, “We should prolly go in ’cause thunder is scary.”
I said, “Yeah. Let’s go in.”
My son said, “Can I do one more dig?”
I said, “OK.”
My daughter and I headed for the house while my son scooped his last shovelful of earth. As is his adorable/frustrating custom, he then scooped and second, third and fourth shovelful. We were close to the back door when the most ridiculously close thunder strike I’ve ever borne witness to struck our general vicinity. My Calvin ran from his dig spot, eyes tightly shut, toward the house. He was on a collision course for the door frame. I grabbed him and, with fatherly concern for his safety, yanked him backward.
When we got in the house he was screaming and sobbing all at once. “You left me!” He screamed.
“No.” I asserted. “You had your eyes closed! I didn’t leave you. You kept digging even though I told you not to. I was here. You almost ran into the house with your eyes closed!”
“OK.” he said, sobbing heartbreakingly.
I held him close in what I hope was a reassuringly fatherly hug.
He agreed that I had not left him; rather I had helped him. He hugged me tightly and soaked my shoulder with his needless tears. My heart broke.
He was so scared I could barely contain my shame. At the same time I blamed him for not listening.
I do my utmost to insure his safety. He is the sweetest disobedient boy that anyone could ever dream. His cheeks are consistently darkened with dirt. His knees remain green. He always has a cut, bug bite or friction burn somewhere on his little body.
He is my Calvin.
He scares me to death, but I love him to death. He is the world’s greatest, most cliché little boy.
Calvin and Hobbes may be a reminisce from the past, but my son is a continuation of the classic little boy spirit.
I love him, and my two daughters, with a love that rivals the love of chosen Deity for the creation of faithful subjects.
Calvin and Hobbes is a deep, heartfelt and spiritual classic and my son is a continuation of this beautiful legacy.
He is my Calvin.
He is a consistently filthy, imaginative and tiny creation of the Great Architect.
I thank the Creator for this tiny, vulnerable and OK with who he is miracle of the Milky Way cliché on a daily basis.
I bid you adieu…and a don’t.
Adieu…enjoy your children for who they are.
A don’t…judge them for their foibles. They are doing the best they can in a broken and confusing world.