Drunk.

Some days I'm not sure if I'm at a playground or a watering hole. No matter what time of day, there's always at least one person getting paper bag drunk in the middle of the playground. I'm certainly no teetotaler and have definitely consumed an adult beverage or twelve in a public space. But at a playground? Surrounded by children? At 9 in the morning? Does it get any more pathetic? Yup.

Yesterday, I was chilling in the sandbox with my lil' man. I smelled a familiar fragrance at our neighborhood park. I looked up and noticed a dude smoking a joint. No biggie. I see dudes smoking joints in the park almost everyday. Whatever. What am I gonna do? Say something and end my 37 year punch-free streak. Ummm. No thanks.  But this dude wasn't just smoking a joint—he was multitasking. He was smoking a joint and pushing a fucking stroller!

Oh west end of Providence ...

Punch.

I've got a mouth. Within this mouth lies a sarcastic tongue that's a wicked smart ass. Around this mouth are loose lips. Together, they have always said exactly what my brain is thinking. Fortunately, this combo must also contain some charm. Because in my 37 years of existence, I've never been punched. And of course, I've never thrown a punch—I'm a lover.

The playground has been a bit rough lately. On Saturday, the wifey and I watched as four young boys (all between the ages of 5 and 9) beat the shit out of each other. There were punches to the throat and kicks to the face. Oh yeah, their mom/guardian just sat on a nearby bench and watched, too. Occasionally, she'd call them over for some hydration. Okay ... Whatever ... They're not my kids and as I mentioned before, I'm not into parenting children that I'm not responsible for. But still, I don't want my impressionable two year old to absorb this behavior.

Today, the lil' man and I were hanging out at the playground with my favorite stay-at-home mom and her two wonderful kiddos that are 1 1/2 and 2 1/2 years old. Like always, we were all having a lot of fun together. Then a 6 year old bully emerged and did what bullies do. Pick on someone that is different and smaller. Yeah, that's right, pick on the only blonde haired, white, two year old in the park. He gave MY lil' man a two handed shove to the chest. I stayed put. I wanted to observe the response of my lil' man before interfering. Besides, I knew that he was just going to run to daddy—I mean, shit, he's two. To my surprise, my lil' man gave that little bastard an even harder two handed shove to the chest—knocking the much larger boy to the ground. I jumped up. Before I could get there, they had already exchanged several more shoves. Obviously, I brought an abrupt end to this foolishness.

At first, I thought, "What the fuck are we doing here? It's kinda frightening! Why aren't we back in our safe, rural, homogenous community? Surely, we wouldn't be experiencing this shit there. What the fuck have we done?" I got a grip! This is what boys do everywhere. Yeah, two seems a bit young. But, I guess you've just gotta deal with stuff as it comes along. I'm not sure how I should feel about my lil' man sticking up for himself and shoving back. Should I be proud? Should I be upset? Would I feel better or worse if he'd just walked away? Dunno, but I sure would be proud if he made it 37 years without taking or throwing a punch.

There's nothing like old friends.

We spent last weekend on the Cape with one of my three go-to friends. There's nothing like the comfort of an old friend. Somebody that truly gets you. There's no need for meaningless small talk. There's no uncomfortable silence. You don't have to figure out if a handshake, fist bump, or hug is the appropriate greeting. No explanation is necessary for your sarcastic tone. You just sit back, relax, and enjoy the moment. You put off leaving, but eventually you hug goodbye, knowing that the next time will be just as glorious in it's simplicity.

But, I had no idea how inspiring this weekend would be for the lil' man's imagination.

Sure, my friend and the lil' man are peas in a pod. There was lots of wild running. More harmonicas than I could count. Drawing. "Sure you can play with my base guitar. Go ahead and break it." More wild running. Both of them woke up with the sun. But, it was the trip to the beach that really got the lil' mans juices flowing.

We gathered the normal beach accessories: chairs, cooler, umbrellas, towels, buckets, and a SPADE. "What? Why are you bringing a spade to the beach? What are you going to do with a spade? A little overkill, don't you think? Dude, you don't need to bring a spade to the beach." "Damn it! The spade is coming." Okay ... So off we went, spade and all.

Immediately upon arrival, he put the spade to use. He dug and dug. Creating a waist high mound of sand that was at least 12 feet in length. We just sat back and watched—because that's what you do with this friend. Sit back, watch, and wonder what this creative madman is up to. Finally, he stepped back and surveyed the mound. He must have approved, because he put the spade down and started sculpting with his hands.

The lil' man became MORE out of control, so we had to leave before the sculpture was finished. I can only imagine that it became some sort of huge dragon, lizard, reptile thing.  We got back to the house and HOLY CRAP! It's the lil' man's supper time, he's starving—no wonder he's out of control. Where did the time go? Sorry lil' man. Daddy was off duty, relaxing, sipping a Nalgene bottle of cape cod. Sorry mommy, I forget that I need to help with the routine stuff while you're on duty. I'll try to do a better, less frustrated job of that.

So ... we're back in Providence. We take our first post Cape trip to the playground. We enter the huge sandbox where the adventure always begins. "Bug. What do you want to make today?" "Mr. Walrus!" Whoa! Usually, it's cupcakes or meat-a-balls. Feeling refreshed and inspired from our weekend in the Cape, I dive into the sandbox and start making Mr. Walrus. The lil' man watches, patiently engaged. After I finish a pretty darn handsome Mr. Walrus, I give the OK to the lil' man and his friends that have gathered. They stomp Mr. Walrus.

Day two, the lil' man requested a lobster. Day three, the lil' man requested a platypus. Yeah, our lil' two year old, not only can say platypus, he actually knows what a platypus is supposed to look like. The platypus was a playground hit and ... ummm ... I think it was a springboard for ... well ... I think I have groupies. That's right JT! I have groupies too. Sure, most of them aren't tall enough to ride a roller coaster. But, that's okay with me—not like I'm trying to bring sexy back. I'm just making shit out of sand.

Today, my lil' friends requested: another lobster, a row boat, and an octopus. I made them all! One lil' girl said, "You're nice!" Another, offered to buy me an ice cream with her only dollar. Awe ... When it was time to leave, I pulled the lil' man away in his wagon. He waived both hands and cheered, "Bye people. Bye friends." They all returned the gesture. It felt like the playground erupted in farewell. Like everyone was running after the lil' man riding in his wagon. I felt like a super star.

Thank you, one of my three go-to friends. Once again, you have inspired me to be better. More importantly, you inspired my boy's imagination.

I don't have to go to the YMCA.

The YMCA comes to us! Well, actually it comes to the park that we go to every morning.

For the bulk of my childhood I was a Y kid, so I was delighted on Tuesday when Y on the move showed up at the park. I thought to myself, "How cool is this?" A traveling YMCA! "You come every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday?" Nice!

I sit back and watch as the Y staff spends time with my lil' man. Even though he doesn't grasp playing catch, jumping rope, kickball, frisbee, etc.. They go out of their way to involve him in everything they do. They already know his name and give him a boat load of one-on-one time. He has no qualms with soaking up the attention.

Today was the third day of Y on the move at the park. And the third time I've had an annoying interaction with a stay-at-home mom. These interaction go something like this:

Stay-at-home mom stands on the sideline, grasping her child, protecting them from interaction.

mom: Is your boy part of this group?
me: Uh. It's the YMCA on the move program. Everyone can participate. They're here every Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. Isn't that awesome?
mom: Well. Did you know about such and such (today it was a playgroup co-op) that you can take your boy to?
me: I just moved here, so I didn't know about _ _ _ _ _ _ _. Thanks for telling me about _ _ _ _ _ _ _, I'll look into it. Have a nice day.

The stay-at-home mom, perplexed, walks away with her child not having participated in Y on the move.

Internally, my mind goes ape shit. Maybe the stay-at-home mom just hates sports. Perhaps, she doesn't want her child interacting with the "free lunch" kids. Is the YMCA a class signifier? Does this mom really think her child is going to experience diversity by looking at it from the sideline? Is everyone welcome at your little co-op?

All this fades out of my mind, as I watch my lil' man enjoy life.

"People daddy. People!"

Yep. You guessed it. We went to the playground this morning.

The lil' man is quickly becoming the favorite whitest white boy at the playground. He comes equipped with lots of toys. And he shares. He doesn't care what gender you are, what color you are, what language you speak, what your religion is, how old you are, or how much $$$ your parents earn. He simply wants to play. In his words all these people are "PEOPLE!" Surely this is common behavior for a two year old. Or is it? Either way, it makes me one proud daddy.

Most of the other kids seem perplexed at the lil' mans willingness to share. "Really? I can play with this? With you?" They glance over at me, obviously his daddy, for a reassuring nod. This crushes me. Makes me want to sob. I smile and say, "Of course you can play with it."

If the lil' man only retains one thing that I teach him, I hope it is that people are people.