rippleIt starts out as an exploratory, “Bubba?”, soft and hesitant.

And then a more demanding, “Bubba?!?”

Finally, bellowed, with all his little lungs behind it, “BUBBA!!!”

And that shout snaps me out of my daydream. I turn my eyes to Boy Z who is pointing at a magpie recently taken to flight, no doubt due to an unexpected clamor echoing about the gum trees.

With an endearing snaggletoothed smile he pipes up, “Beer”.

We’d been down on the muddy bank of a seasonal creek that some pioneering Aussie optimistically dubbed the Sturt River for over an hour throwing rocks into the water. It probably isn’t the best parenting approach in the world to drift off into a private reverie while one’s 20 month old son is a slip away from a flowing body of water, but in my defense I’m still not used to being called ‘Bubba’. Despite growing up in the South, I’ve never really been a ‘Bubba’*. But I opted for Papa rather than Daddy as my parental title and Papa comes out as ‘bubba’ from the clumsy developing jaw of a toddler. Bird as ‘beer’.

rocks2Wednesdays are my one day a week as a stay-at-home Dad. As much as I enjoy them, I’ve got to admit that one day a week is enough for me. Wednesdays are draining – emotionally, mentally and physically. By the time Dr. O’C gets home from work I’m usually withered up in a corner somewhere. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy it, just that spending an eight hour day solely in charge of a toddler is harder than any job I’ve ever done.

I used to make sure that we had a full day planned – a trip to the beach or the zoo, an outing in the city, an afternoon at one of these indoor baby playgrounds – something that would occupy both father and son. I’ve realized however, that the boy doesn’t care what we do. Nothing occupies his attention very long anyway and he seems as happy mucking around in the back yard as he does anywhere. He seems happy just to be in my company.

So now, we build castles with Legos. Or we listen to music and dance. Or we push trucks down our ski slope of a driveway.We cook, we clean, we draw, we read stories. We feed the ducks at the ‘lake’. We run errands.

And we stand on the bank of a muddy stream and throw rocks in the water. And in that time, I can slip away in my mind. And watching concentric ripples rocks3of water from stone after stone after stone, I can find a sense of peace and calm. And this little boy child, who can’t focus on anything for longer than two minutes, just keeps casting stone after stone into a muddy creek. I don’t know for sure, but I imagine that at times like these, Boy Z is feeling the exact same sense of peace and calm.

But time marches on and as the afternoon shadows started to lengthen, I made an executive parental decision to begin the walk home.

“Come on Boy Z, shall we go home and see Timmins?”

He pauses, thinking it over, and then with a smile and a nod holds out his hand for me to take and we clamber up the bank.

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* However, I was a ‘Bocephus’ for a year in my aborted first attempt at university. The fraternity I joined was full of Deadheads and because I listened largely to country music at that time – the era of Hank Jr. – my official fraternity nickname was a testament to the hirsute son of a legend.

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Speaking of Deadheads, The Grateful Dead’s “American Beauty” – the only Dead album worth owning if you’re not a stinky hippy – is available from Grateful Dead - American Beauty.

Actually, “Workingman’s Dead” is pretty good as well.

 
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