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.


Below is the latest video of Hunter/Destroyer:

Signing Bonus

One of the bummers of working this summer has been missing a number of activities that had become, if not traditional, then certainly, part of our routine. With less time comes more prioritizing, so while some of these habits have been altered with the arrival of Hunter some things have taken on greater meaning as they are helping form his background. One of the things we have started doing the last few years is create a memorabilia collection and because of that Hunter has been experiencing new variations of stalking. He is like a mini paparazzo already.

I am not sure where I caught the bug for collecting autographs and collectible souvenirs but I know much of it had to do with chasing Lance Armstrong around the world. The first time I saw him, I safely admired from afar, as he raced in the colorful Postal kit in the streets of France. A huge part of the cycling fan experience is chasing all the free mementos and roadside treats. It is the closeness of the athletes to the fan that is the main attraction. And I picked up all the candy and certainly drank the Cool-Aid, Jim Jones style, feeling more than a little entitled to encroach personal space while chasing a souvenir.

On that first trip we met some savory characters who had slept in their tiny Euro car in the hotel parking lot where the US Postal Service Cycling Team was staying and managed to have their pictures taken with the icon himself the next morning. I thought that was cool, to the point where we some how found ourselves on a couch in the tiny lobby of the new hotel in which the team was staying. Truthfully the whole thing felt awkward, poor Heather would have crawled into the couch cushions for shame if she could, but I was set on meeting the man.

We sat in that little hotel, in a remote non-toursity part of France, as long as we could, knowing we were not allowed. We tried to blend in, but something about the four of us gave away our intentions. I am not sure exactly what it was. It could have been the stench of replica Postal Team jersey the guy Heather and I dubbed "Mike Myers" was wearing. This thing had practically melded with the original skin of the man, forming a new smelly exo-dermis primed for stalking. (Of course this being France, the stench, oh never mind, too cliche.) Because of his quirkiness and odd resemblance to the "Wayne's World"/"Shrek" guru, I listened intently to his stories of sleeping in the back of the car filled with road signs and other schwag that he was going to bring home to add to the decor of his home which had been built into a mini Tour de France shrine, complete, somehow, with multi-stage venues.

Still, it did not seem weird to us (me?). Sitting in a foreign hotel, stepping deftly past the HUGE sign strictly forbidding anyone who was not a registered guest (written in perfect English), next to Mike Myers and his companion, a small, loud talking, one-legged cancer survivor wearing a giant, bright Yellow US Postal t-shirt that had not been washed for weeks, was just part of the Fan Experience I told myself. So I was angered when they came to remove us. I wondered what gave us away. I guessed it was because Heather was carrying two huge bags emblazoned with the Tour de France logo or that maybe she had been spotted in the lobby after hours of loitering. As they were removing us, of course, Lance walked by. I saw him, looked him dead in the eye. And froze. And then we were kicked out.

From that point I have taken on a new mission when meeting my heroes. I was going to get what I came for. So, I was so cool when I finally came close to Armstrong again, all the way in the foreign streets of San Francisco, where I shook his hand and took some pictures. Never-mind that I had no means for an autograph.

If that is the rationale for this new irrational hobby, my penchant for collecting clearly came from my baseball card collecting days. Kids in the 80's had to entertain themselves so, for me, baseball cards were the video games of our times until Video Game Arcades and Atari were invented anyway. During that time I could be found in the dark light of my room shuffling through cards and organizing them in a new way every night. So I guess this new form of collecting taps into that part of my childhood. And, that, perhaps is why I am dragging poor Hunter all around collecting autographs of local athletes.

This summer, besides the Hunter ball we secured, we have already been out to Candlestick Park getting signatures from coach Mike Nolan, Joe Staley and Justin Smith, three very important 49ers. And we met Matt Cain, the venerable Giant in the Downtown Macy's basement, where Hunter also met Lou Seal.

Though he is too small to appreciate any of this, I know he knows. I know he is picking up on the vibe, the tradition, the atmosphere so that someday he will not be intimidated by greatness, nor even chasing greatness, but rather achieving greatness in part because of learning good habits of family bonding and being raised correctly.


And for those who are tired of my Athlete Worship and worry for my son, I have made a new movie of Hunter incorporating months 5-8 (he just turned 9 months), where not only has he started his own memorabilia collection but he will be walking soon because he has crawled and climbed over everything in the house. Enjoy. (There is faint music in the background).