No, You Don't

He coiled back toward the window and said with an exasperated gasp and a defiant stare:

“No, you don’t.”

I stood, leaning out the window, and replied, “you need to go wander anyway, buddy.”

Guilt and anger, frustration and sadness well up as I think back tonight on this morning’s conflict. The morning had begun with such hope: a sleep over for Katie and a gaggle of kids gathered in the backyard for a day’s worth of pretend, play and role play that only kids of a certain age can. And Griffin is that age. Eleven years old with a wicked sense of humor and a sense of irony well beyond his years. I was for a moment eleven years old again and running through the woods of suburban Everett with my best friend Mike Federmeyer, pretending to be soldiers in World War II. We’d show up without a call or a text in the middle of the cul de sac at the unspoken but well understood hour when child’s play commenced each day on 143rd Street.

So, moments before, I was cajoling my son to go out on this beautiful Sunday and play. Go, enjoy the sun, Griffin. He pawed at the keyboard, squinting at the computer. “Dad, can you pull the blinds down so I can see the screen?” Uh, no, I can’t Griffin, so go find something to do outside, okay my man?

So out the back door of our recently remodeled house he wheeled. Down the ramp and to the left past the three windows that look out on our driveway he slowly pushed himself. And as I watched him I quietly wondered if I was simply being selfish and impatient or lovingly tough. My more tender side drew me toward the window and pushed it open. I’ve never been in a wheelchair so I cannot know what it feels to be sent into the neighborhood on wheels, but I felt compelled to offer what empathy I could and the universal perspective of boyhood that bonds all men together.

“Griff, if it makes you feel any better, I had to do the same thing when I was a kid. I had to go and round up friends to play. I know how you feel.”

“No, you don’t.”

And with that the gate slammed shut and his chair disappeared behind the van as he headed down the driveway. And I stood, rebuffed and ashamed, questioning my tough love and knowing without a doubt that he was right. My only question now was, am I?