My four-year-old son can’t get enough of my time. It’s not that he’s demanding, though I do warn him about becoming so, but he’s like every child: he wants his parent’s time more than anything in the world.
This morning, before work, between getting the girls to school, Jacob and I played Spatula-Hockey. What, you ask, is Spatula-Hockey? Two spatulas. One big black Gatorade top (OK, it doesn’t have to be black, but if you want authentic puck color, there you go). Two chairs for making the goal between the legs (sit to the side of the goal and spatula only is your defense and offense, not your body). Oh, and you’ll need a slick wood or linole-however-you-spell-it floor. Finally, two crazy dudes like Jake and me, and you’re playing Spatula-Hockey.
After we played three games, Jacob said, “Dad, how bout a game of football in the backyard?” I was heading out the door.
“Under the stadium lights, son, after work,” I said.