Raising Matt

Raising Matt

“Parenting: The days are long, but the years are short.”

-Gretchen Rubin

Jim Valvano was dying from cancer when he gave his acceptance speech upon receiving the Courage Award at the 1993 ESPY’s. His frail body struggled to get on and off the stage, but his message was powerful: “You need to laugh every day.”

Laughter, good for the soul, seek it out every day, and cherish the moment. Life is too hard without it. A smile, however slight or fleeting, can offer that much-needed respite from the rigors of today’s world and recharge the spirit. Find something to laugh about every day, and even better, say or do something funny to spread the gift.

Of course, there are the standard bearers of comedy who brighten our day on TV or on film- John Belushi, Steve Martin, Carol Burnett, Eddie Murphy, Phyllis Diller, Bob Hope, and on and on. Instant, contrived, rehearsed, and prebaked… but welcome laughs at the touch of a button. And then, for the fortunate, there are the natural, spontaneous, upfront, personal, and ongoing reasons to laugh- a funny friend, a jokester at work, a neighbor with an uncanny sense of humor, or, I’m guessing, for many readers, a kid.

That was my homegrown source of nearly constant moments of levity, my son, Matt. Let me share a few clips from my highlight reel.

T-ball:

He looked like a dot out there in left field, stationed far deeper than any kid in the history of T-ball ever hit a ball. I wasn’t even sure he was on the correct field. But he looked sharp in his bright red Ace Hardware rec department jersey, black baggy Umbro shorts, and a dark blue frayed New York Yankees cap tilted slightly upward atop his “I need a hair cut” light brown hair. His impressive appearance was undermined by a serious lack of focus.

“Dad! There’s a gopher hole over here!”

I was relieved when the coach, keenly aware of his awesome fielding talents (heredity), stationed him in deep right field for the next inning. You guessed it.

“Dad! There’s a gopher hole over here, too!”

Fortunately, there were no gopher holes in the infield. Three games into the season, Matt was playing the hot corner and turned in one of the most memorable plays in the history of the sport. As he was attempting to field a sharply hit grounder, the ball bounced off his glove and up into his baggy Umbro shorts. It was a new take on the hidden ball trick. He struggled to find and free the ball from its cotton confines, and it finally popped out- out of the other side of his shorts! Laughter was muffled as most present were in awe that such a thing could happen. I later calculated the odds of a recurrence of the in-and-out event at twenty-two zillion to one. Yes, my boy was special.

What Matt lacked in fielding prowess, he made up for at the plate. At his very first at bat, he smacked a bouncer that made it all the way to the outfield. My excitement quickly dissipated into the evening summer breeze as he, despite all manners of encouragement from his coach, refused to leave the batter’s box. This seldom-seen phenomenon, tagged by sports psychologists as “batter box inertia”, was only overcome by my assuming the role of first base coach, which helped him conquer his fear of motion by giving him a familiar destination to run to. Unfortunately, for the rest of the season, his specialty was hitting singles, as, no matter how far the ball traveled, there was no enticement for him to travel to second.

St. Nick’s

Having been around for a while, I was comfortable in the belief our family unit at the time consisted of four people- Mom, Dad, Sarah, and Matt. So, I was puzzled as I was making my nightly dad-duty rounds- checking to make sure the doors and windows were locked, no bad guys were lurking in the shadows, and nothing was on fire- when I counted five stockings hung on the fireplace. I moved closer to investigate.

There were four impressive, bright red stockings with white fluffy stuff on top. They were labeled Mom, Dad, Sarah, and Matt, which seemed appropriate. But then there was a fifth, a worn, slightly soiled, stretched-out white sweat sock with “Bill” scribbled on it from top to bottom. Bill? Who’s Bill?

The little stinker was trying to fake out St. Nick and get himself an extra sock full of treats. Seven years old and already showing a little larceny in his heart. I could see a career in business or perhaps law school. I was so proud.

Christmas

For a child whose guiding principle in life could have been summed up in one word- “gimme”- the approach of Christmas Day put Matt in a near feeding frenzy. He wanted more stuff than anyone in the history of wanting.

Newspaper ads covered the dining room table as he perused, clipped, pasted, and taped pictures of desired goodies onto legal-sized sheets of paper. He moved with the speed and agility of 1950’s U.S. Postal worker in the mailroom as he compiled his impressive catalog of toys, games, puzzles, and crafts. He toiled at the task from the first tones of Christmas music at stores right up to the waning hours of Christmas Eve. You had to admire the effort.

We made so many trips to see the mall Santa that I thought they would soon be on a first-name basis. I think I noticed Santa dozing off the last time Matt unloaded on him.

Christmas Eve, the big event. I was again doing my nightly security check when I noticed sheets of paper hanging on the fireplace screen. I moved closer to investigate.

There it was, Matt’s Christmas list, three legal-sized sheets of paper, taped to the screen and facing inward so Santa would see his list as soon as he came down from the chimney. That’s what’s called covering all your bases. I still smile as I remember the moment.

School

The world of learning presented countless moments for Matt to inject a little laughter into my day. He did fine with his schoolwork, but he was marked down for behavior in every report card from pre-school through the eighth grade. He got three “silly’s” and one “goofy” on his first pre-school summary. It was never anything harmful or mean-spirited. He just wanted to be funny and make people laugh.

I remember sitting in one of those little chairs outside his third-grade classroom. Matt had been warned- I didn’t want any more reports of classroom misbehavior. Matt looked confident, but I was unsure.

“Matt, is there anything you want to tell me before we go in there?”

He smugly replied.

“No, Dad, it’s all good.”

Once inside, Mrs. B. reported that Matt was doing well in all his subjects, and then…

“The only problem we have with Matt is his behavior.”

I threw him my best Dad-look of disapproval. Bewildered, he looked at me as he shrugged his shoulders and extended his hands, palms up, his eyes proclaiming his innocence and crying out against the injustice of it all. I wish I could relive the moment.

And of course, there’s my favorite school-related routine.

“Matt, before you go to Joey’s, do you have any homework tonight?”

“Nope.”

“None?”

“Well, just a little bit of stuff for Math.”

“Let me see… Matt! You’ve got two pages of problems to solve. Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve got to read a story for English class and then write something about it. And I think there’s something to do for Religion class.”

No one suffered more from doing homework than my boy, Matt. He’d sit at the dining room table with the look of a slave chained to an oar on a Roman galley. It was another long night.

My fingers tensed up back then, but now I smile about it.

Role Model/Teacher

It’s good for a child to have an older sibling to look up to and to learn from. One evening I noticed Matt kneeling on the floor in front of his little sister, Rachel, who was seated on the sofa and listening very intently.

Nine-year-old Matt was pointing to a chair as he said, “Magumba, magumba.” Two-year-old Rachel repeated the word, “Magumba”. Matt thought it would be funny to have her think a chair was a magumba, a tree was a toopa, and our dog was a moo-moo.

One day I looked out the window and saw Rachel standing next to our driveway. As Matt rode by on his bike, she would spin around and fall to the ground. This odd event was repeated over and over again. I went out to investigate.

“What are you guys going, Matt?”

“We’re practicing drive-by shootings.”

I'm certain that with Matt as her mentor, Rachel got a leg up on learning much-needed basic life skills.

Matt spent a lot of time with his little sister; she turned out just fine, and we still call a chair a magumba.

911

My wife had big news for me when I got home from work.

“You won’t believe it. Someone called 911 from the ice rink tonight.”

Matt was part of a group of four or five boys at his speedskating practice, who were known for occasional feats of mischief. I didn’t think he would do that, but I wanted to make sure. I knew it best not to confront him head-on, so I took a subtle, Columbo-like approach.

“Hey, Matt, how was practice tonight?”

“Oh, Dad! You should have seen it! Some kid called 991! There were police all over the place!”

Now, I received this message with mixed feelings. I was relieved to know it wasn’t my son who made that call, but I could also envision myself flopping around on the kitchen floor, having the big one while my kid was frantically dialing 991.

WWJD

Matt had a wonderful sense of humor.

It was the first time I had seen it- a rubber bracelet with the inscription WWJD.

“What’s that, Matt?”

“WWJD- It stands for what would Jesus do?”

“That’s nice, what would Jesus do? A little reminder that you should always try to do the right thing. Where did you get it?”

“I stole it.”

Reflecting

I have such bittersweet memories. I love to think of such things, but it pains me to know such times cannot return. Life is so much better if you have a kid around.

One of the saddest moments of my life- Matt had just gone off to college, and I was doing that security check thing again. Matt would sometimes forget his house key, so if he wasn’t home, I’d make sure the back door wasn’t locked. I reached out my hand, and with my fingers just inches from the doorknob, I remembered- Matt didn’t live there anymore.

Here’s the point. Enjoy your kids, even the challenging times. We raise our children; we don’t get to keep them.

One thing I know for sure- my first grandchild is going to think a chair is a magumba.