41 going on 12

What the hell is it with Dad’s? I mean we are all the same? We see something silly, crazy or dangerous and immediately revert back to 12 years old.

Now 12 years old is a good age, at 12 you are old enough to take the bus by yourself, you can ride your bike all day and keep up with the big kids, and you can jump the creek on a toboggan. At the same time you are too young to have a job (save maybe shoveling snow and cutting a senior’s lawn) and as a result summers are free and easy and weekends are empty.

Which brings me to tobogganing with Max on the weekend; we happened to be up in Barrie and with the cousins and sauntered off to a hill on the west side of the highway that was amazingly packed to stupid fast. 

My first reaction is to load up my son and let loose the hounds of hell.  We where riding one of those ‘flying saucers’ that handle like a piece of shit and has no brakes.  This form of toboggan is most defiantly a throw back to the 70’s because I don’t believe it would get through any legal department these days.  With conditions as they where it ripped, but good sense and my Dad instincts kicked in and I dialed it back a couple of notches, that and I know Max hates snow in his face….who doesn’t?  So down the hill we go dragging my hands to keep us going straight and at a reasonable pace playing dodge the dumb kid walking up the middle of the run, did I do that?  Even slow this was fun…but dumb Dad kept trying to go faster, carefully, safety first old man.

So let’s talk about my internal 12 year old; solo run.  I get on the ‘Flying Saucer’ and, fat gut down, toes dragging, head off down the hill.  I mentioned it was fast right?  I realized quiet suddenly those bumpy rides and a Walmart ‘Flying Saucer’ are kind of hard on a man’s delicates. I have memories of a red disk made of space age industrial strength plastic that, short of -20 degrees and a tree, would never break let along pound your nuts like a Nutcracker does a Christmas walnut. So I prop myself up on my elbows and knees to alleviate the pressure on my nether regions only to find myself on the jump side of the run, elbows are not equipped with cushy fat or movable joints for suspension so I went from a nut pounding to an arm beating… my head is 12 but my body isn’t.

But all that taken into account, a slow climb to my feet and back up the hill (giggling like a giddy school boy I might add) didn’t deter me from not going down the hill again.

But all this boils down to my son; at four years old he could care less about big fast hills and riding down at suicide-speed with his old man.  He enjoyed our relaxed rides, from the laughter and the ‘lets go again’ I know for sure he had a good time. But when we relocated to a tiny hill, about a 3 foot drop over a gradual 20 feet, he was perfectly happy to ride the disk by himself…he didn’t need Dad’s help and his independence is starting to show.

He’ll catch me and pass me no doubt. For a few more years I get to be the crazy hero that he looks up to…but eventually he will build the kicker to jump the creek, and I’ll stand by with the hot chocolate…after I have racked myself up testing the jump out.

It’s what Dads do…it’s why I love having a son so much.

It’s why I will always be a 12 year old kid at heart.

Mint.