Hunter/Destroyer

My grandfather passed down his fix-it gene to my brother, but I have Heather Jean. Well when I say "fix" it, especially in my brother's case, it is probably more accurate to think of a mix between McGuyver and the professor on Gilligan's Island, you know the one who could rig a bike to a coconut and make a power generator to electrify the whole island, but could not fix the tiny hole in the boat. Or perhaps Doc Brown, before the Flux Capacitor. Of course, as I said, I am not one to talk, because any handy-me-downs to Hunter will have to come from his mom.

That is not to say I was not shown how to fix things, I can fix a mean Martini with olive-- shaken correctly-- for instance, but I am not really into fixing broken things.

Oh, now don't get me wrong, I can fix a flat on my bike, say, but I would rather have my brother do it. And in our house, in preparation for Hunter's arrival, Heather and I worked to make his room nice and all, but she has put in all the baby-safe locks around the house and fashioned the Baby Gate at the top of stairs that required a wood fastener when we had only metal on which to fasten.

My brother, though, he can fix anything. Especially if you don't care if it ever functions the way it was supposed to function before. Yeah, I fixed the toaster! And now you have that automatic espresso maker you always wanted! And really especially if you don't mind a little duct tape and fishing string. Actually he has saved me countless times, always there with his Leatherman or bike tools. He lives by the Boy Scout credo, to be sure, prepared for anything. My grandfather was an inventor, and electrical engineer and fitterer, always fittering around somewhere trying to fix something and I saw my brother paying attention.

Since I got none of that Rube Goldberg ingenuity, I wonder how Hunter will be with that stuff. I see him now, teetering over to his book shelf to pull down his books, turn the pages and explore. So I know, at least, he will be curious, hopefully his mom can pass down the fix it skills. I can pass him the football, or fantasy sports advice, but don't ask me how to put his newest climbing toy together.

It is all very clear to me now, when I see him destroying things, where he gets certain skills. He is never faster than when he tears after the dog's bowl so he can topple it over and watch the water spill out. And, we have a new coffee table because he etched his autograph in the old one. Or, sometimes when I am in his room playing with him, I will frequently build a tower from his blocks, secretly growing more proud of my accomplishment with every new level, when, like a shot, he flies over and knocks over the tower and laughs.

I think his Tasmanian skills are most represented by his meals, when all that is left is a flourish of dust and shrapnel and shards of flesh and bread. Babies try to eat everything, so we give him everything to eat. Rice, beans and blueberries are good. So too are yogurt, chicken, Gold Fish and Cheerios. What a wonderful rainbow is left in his high chair for the dog to clean after we pick him up. If only the dog could come with us to restaurants as well. Recently we went out to dinner and I stayed late and tipped big, cleaning the floor under our table was like trying to clean spilled oatmeal with a fork. While eating that meal, though, we were so proud because he was able to color with crayons, understanding how to hold them correctly and everything.

So, when he gouges a hole inside my nose making me bleed or knocks a potted plant to the ground, I don't run for the Crazy Glue, look for some twine and duct tape, or even scold him for carelessness. Even though his mother might have nurtured this particular plant for years, I don't think to repair the damage. I get the camera and proudly take pictures of the Handy-work of my beautiful baby boy.


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