When Malcolm was younger he was mean. He was mean like an wild west gunslinger, drunk on whiskey and ready to fight at the drop of a hat. Ever the old cat whose balls won’t quit aching, he often took swipes at me for no good reason, as if to say, “I am the boss here, don’t you forget it.” Ike Turner didn’t have shit on Malcolm. And then, slowly but surely, the angry fog began to lift, and I could hang out with him without worrying that he would slap me in the face or bite me in the love handles. I have been enjoying these post-apocalyptic days with Malcolm for a while now.
Yesterday, however, was a trip down memory lane. I picked him up from summer camp relatively early so that we could go to the park for some baseball before watching the Giants-Phillies game on TV. I knew he was looking forward to it, because he left a game of freeze dance at camp to come with me, and one does not willingly leave a game of freeze dance without good reason. Once at the park, I began to sniff that something terrible was amiss when Malcolm broke out into a tantrum after a play in which he tagged me out. The reason? “Daddy you made me out of breath.” “Oh Jeez,” I thought to myself, “this is going to get ugly.”
Sure enough, after another tantrum in response to my calling a pitch that almost hit me a ball and not a strike, I said we were leaving. He erupted. After calling me every name in the book, he threw a ball at me. When that failed to sway me, he hucked the bat at me, hitting me in the spine. I would have throttled the little turd, except the little girls at a nearby lemonade stand were now paying close attention to us and I was feeling a little too much like an episode of Cops. Instead, I quietly ushered Malcolm into his carseat and began driving home. As we turned the corner, Malkie chucked a water bottle at my head, hitting the target and dousing the car with a fresh coat of H2O.
I wish I could print the things I yelled at Malcolm after this, but Amy’s family members who read the blog might object. It was not pretty. Now Malcolm can’t play with his baseball gear for a while, and can’t let my guard down while he is anywhere near my groin. I only hope that this was some sort of short term blip, and not the beginning of his transformation into this guy:
Tags: Malcolm misbehaves, tantrums
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A water bottle??? Aren’t these outlawed in the Bay Area yet??
They should… as deadly weapons. I am just glad I gave him the plastic kind instead of the steel one we use!
Also: just kidding. What happened to you sounds like the opposite of fun.
You and I are living parallel lives, my friend! (you are not alone!)
I am so sorry!
Malcolm can’t play baseball? ooooooo that’s cold! Its hard to imagine him wanting to do anything else.
He just plays pretend baseball now. Right now the Cardinals are beating the A’s 15-12. Jacob Woodstock just hit a home off of Adam Wainright. (He knows some of the players, but not all the ones, yet!)
I didn’t want to deprive him of his most precious gear, but they say that the consequences must relate somehow to the offensive behavior. It may be that this will backfire and he will no longer be interested in playing, but I don’t want to get hit with any more bats!
I really hope Malcolm does not transform into Lou Pinella. Hopefully he never learns to start kicking dirt onto people’s shoes.
I could see Malkie getting ejected from a tee ball game. Yesterday, as we were watching the Giants game, Malkie says, “That pitch was low. This umpire isn’t very good.”