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Jeff's Life
Archive
Jeff Stimpson, 39, has been a working journalist for 15 years. He lives in New York with his wife Jill and sons Alex, 3, and Edwin, four months. He maintains a site of essays, Jeff's Life, at:
JEFF'S LIFE
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Monthly Column... |
Pillow Fight
by
Jeff Stimpson
I'm settled in for the evening -- which to Ned seems to mean that I've stepped through the front door and unzipped my coat -- when he says, "Play Pillow?"
Sometimes Ned likes to fall into my stomach. Other times, he likes to jump on my crotch. Still other times he will just walk on my back, which I don't mind since five years of fatherhood have taught me it's the closest thing I'll get to a massage.
The action takes place on our bed, a broad, flat, soft space where little bones are unlikely to hit anything hard once it's cleared of such landmines as a hardcover book, one of Jill's bigger belt buckles, or much change. I clear the bed until I'm sure the only thing Alex and Ned could probably hit are each other: Nothing scoops at my heart like the clunk of two little skulls coming together, unless it's Jill demanding "What happened!?" afterwards.
Guys rough-house. I used to rough-house -- "rassle" -- with my big brother. He was nine years older, but I finally got him to the floor when I was about 26. My mother used to cheerlead: "Cut it out 'fore you break your necks!"
Rough-housing with your little boys, I've always heard, is one of fatherhood's most robust pleasures, a special one reserved for dad. You don't see too many moms take their toddlers and pretend they're James T. Kirk on a hostile planet. "My little bear- Oh, Alex. No. Sweetie, my neck!" says Jill, as Alex gets her in a good grip for The Bronco Buck (see below). Also, nobody ever mentioned dad's nausea -- the heat makes me woozy, along with Ned and Alex's little feet coming down on my skull until it feels like a canned ham in a pile driver -- but I take the condition as a reminder that I'm pushing 42, and Alex and Ned are not. Ten minutes into it, I'm murmuring to myself like an outfoxed superhero: Losing ... power ... Must ... conserve ... strength ...
I forget when Ned started this (too many blows with the little feet, maybe). He used to ask to play Pillow by demanding, "Put your head down!", but lately he just says, "Please." He soon summoned Alex, with whom I never rassled. He never seemed to want more than the occasional tickle, which he asked for by saying, "Again?" "Alex, c'mon. Play Pillow!" Sometimes Alex will just come running when he hears Ned's alarm, which to the rest of us is just piercing laughter. Alex comes running and bolts onto the bed. Sometimes he tries to burrow under me. Other times we go for something more acrobatic.
On my little sons I practice several kinds of takedowns:
The Bronco Buck: Alex and Ned climb on my back one at a time. My head is low, my face buried in the down blanket. I can't breathe; I'm sweating and getting a headache; they don't care. Sometimes Alex will pull my T shirt back down if it's hiked up on my back, but other than that my own sons don't care. As if smelling my blood, this is their favorite. They wrap their arms around my neck, brace their legs against my rips, and let me buck them off over the shoulder. This allows them a scrumptious roll on the mattress, unless I miscalculate and buck one of them into another. "Bump my head!" Ned complains, rubbing. Alex just giggles until he realizes it hurts, then lapses right into crying, then back to giggling. "I'm okay," says Ned. "You okay, dad?"
The Quarterback Sack: My favorite. Shoulder to chest (spearing with your make-believe football helmet is a penalty ...), arms around the shoulders, full follow-through to the turf. Trash-talk as I let them up. They giggle insanely.
The Jujitsu Toss: Variation on the Bronco Buck. I sweep my arm back and then forward, cutting Alex's legs right out from underneath him. Sort of carry/drop him, preferably face down. If face-up, follow through with vigorous tickling. Check everyone for fractured necks.
The Simple Shove: Quick and efficient, heel of the hand -- gently -- to the chest bone. This works especially great on Ned, and allows him to ham it up a little bit, as if acting for the ref. He's getting taller, and he falls like a tree.
Once in a while one of them will clip me in the eye, and tearfully I make a mental note to pick up a pair of goggles. Alex starts to tickle my foot. "No fair!" I bark. Sometimes we play while Jill is working at the computer nearby. Once after a spectacular jujitsu toss, I looked up to see her staring.
Is she going to congratulate me? I wondered. "You wanna watch their heads?" she said.
God forbid I try to take a break to eat dinner, give them a bath, or clear my aching head (... losing ... power ...). "Noooooo!" shrieks Ned. "Play Pilloooooo!" It took me a long time to figure out who the "pillow" was; one too many blows with the little feet, maybe. But I still outlast them, until they've stopped bolting and kicking and instead just plop onto me like sacks. It is a manly game, and we will play it again tomorrow and tomorrow and forever.
Copyright 2003 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
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