Read Online Raising Cubby by John Elder Robison - Free Book Online
Authors: John Elder Robison
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guess kids are trusting about that until the day you drop them. He would go up and down, squealing with delight, until my arms wore out.
“Come on, Dad. Toss me again!” Even with my muscles built up from months of practice, the sandbag toss remained very tiring. I couldn’t pause, even for a second. Cubby insisted on constant motion. The moment he hit my arms on the way down, he giggled and yelled, “Again!” and I had to shoot him back up into the air instantly, lest he howl with dissatisfaction. I was beginning to understand why people said parenting was exhausting.
Baby Toss became a regular activity for Cubby and me. We did it until he got too big to toss and catch reliably. “You can do it,” Cubby would say, but I wasn’t so sure. That was when we discovered the carousel game, where I took both his little hands in mine and whirled him around and around, lifting his feet off the ground.
He loved it, but Little Bear wasn’t so enthusiastic. “Don’t spin him too fast,” she would say. “You’ll pull his little arms right out of the sockets.” Hearing that, I had visions of myself, holding two arm stumps while my kid sat on the ground howling and wondering where his arms had gone. I don’t know why moms are so cautious. She wasn’t that way before he was born. Something must have changed with the arrival of the kid.
I’ve seen some pretty rough play in parks in my day, and I’d survived without any damage. When I was Cubby’s age, my Uncle Bob swung me so fast I flew right across the yard to land in a pile of leaves and straw. I never saw anyone’s arms come off, back then or since. Of course, it’s possible that those earlier armless kids weretoo ashamed to be seen in public. I always heard there were strange children living in the Prodigialis family’s basement down the street when I was a kid.
When Cubby got a little bigger, he became too big to toss and too heavy to swing. Some dads would have given up at that point. Not me! That’s when we made the move to machinery. Our local playground had a parent-powered carousel he could ride, and I could spin it fast enough to twirl his head into next week. He liked that a lot. Sometimes we’d see other tykes there, and we discovered that they liked the carousel too. And I mean
really
liked it. They’d see me spinning Cubby and pile on with him. In no time at all, I’d have three or four laughing and screaming kids who kept yelling, “Faster, faster” no matter how fast I moved.
Other dads seemed more cautious around playground hardware. Sure, they pushed their kids on tire swings and encouraged them to crawl through giant pipes. But few tossed their kids in the air, or swung them till they flew across the yard, sliding like a ballplayer for home plate. Maybe the other dads were more sensible, but the kids I entertained truly squealed for joy, and hardly any of them ever lost an arm or head in the process. That just goes to show you: True playground euphoria requires a lot of energy and a dash of danger to achieve. I may have been a loser with the other kids when I was growing up, but I was a hands-down winner as an adult.
One of the signs that Cubby was getting bigger was that he claimed his own space. “My room!” he exclaimed proudly. His mom had spent a lot of time making it perfect, and it showed. The bed had nice soft sheets and a warm, tasty blanket. His toys were in a big box in the corner, except for his favorites, which covered the floor. There were even books and clothes, in drawers and in piles. The only problem was the monsters.
I don’t know why kids are scared of monsters, but every one I have ever observed has that fear. It must be genetic. I cannot recall telling Cubby to be scared of monsters even once. Yet he feared them, and I remember feeling the same way as a little boy.
There are things out there that eat kids
. You just know it.
I remembered my own fears of being eaten, and my parents assuring me that monsters were
“Come on, Dad. Toss me again!” Even with my muscles built up from months of practice, the sandbag toss remained very tiring. I couldn’t pause, even for a second. Cubby insisted on constant motion. The moment he hit my arms on the way down, he giggled and yelled, “Again!” and I had to shoot him back up into the air instantly, lest he howl with dissatisfaction. I was beginning to understand why people said parenting was exhausting.
Baby Toss became a regular activity for Cubby and me. We did it until he got too big to toss and catch reliably. “You can do it,” Cubby would say, but I wasn’t so sure. That was when we discovered the carousel game, where I took both his little hands in mine and whirled him around and around, lifting his feet off the ground.
He loved it, but Little Bear wasn’t so enthusiastic. “Don’t spin him too fast,” she would say. “You’ll pull his little arms right out of the sockets.” Hearing that, I had visions of myself, holding two arm stumps while my kid sat on the ground howling and wondering where his arms had gone. I don’t know why moms are so cautious. She wasn’t that way before he was born. Something must have changed with the arrival of the kid.
I’ve seen some pretty rough play in parks in my day, and I’d survived without any damage. When I was Cubby’s age, my Uncle Bob swung me so fast I flew right across the yard to land in a pile of leaves and straw. I never saw anyone’s arms come off, back then or since. Of course, it’s possible that those earlier armless kids weretoo ashamed to be seen in public. I always heard there were strange children living in the Prodigialis family’s basement down the street when I was a kid.
When Cubby got a little bigger, he became too big to toss and too heavy to swing. Some dads would have given up at that point. Not me! That’s when we made the move to machinery. Our local playground had a parent-powered carousel he could ride, and I could spin it fast enough to twirl his head into next week. He liked that a lot. Sometimes we’d see other tykes there, and we discovered that they liked the carousel too. And I mean
really
liked it. They’d see me spinning Cubby and pile on with him. In no time at all, I’d have three or four laughing and screaming kids who kept yelling, “Faster, faster” no matter how fast I moved.
Other dads seemed more cautious around playground hardware. Sure, they pushed their kids on tire swings and encouraged them to crawl through giant pipes. But few tossed their kids in the air, or swung them till they flew across the yard, sliding like a ballplayer for home plate. Maybe the other dads were more sensible, but the kids I entertained truly squealed for joy, and hardly any of them ever lost an arm or head in the process. That just goes to show you: True playground euphoria requires a lot of energy and a dash of danger to achieve. I may have been a loser with the other kids when I was growing up, but I was a hands-down winner as an adult.
One of the signs that Cubby was getting bigger was that he claimed his own space. “My room!” he exclaimed proudly. His mom had spent a lot of time making it perfect, and it showed. The bed had nice soft sheets and a warm, tasty blanket. His toys were in a big box in the corner, except for his favorites, which covered the floor. There were even books and clothes, in drawers and in piles. The only problem was the monsters.
I don’t know why kids are scared of monsters, but every one I have ever observed has that fear. It must be genetic. I cannot recall telling Cubby to be scared of monsters even once. Yet he feared them, and I remember feeling the same way as a little boy.
There are things out there that eat kids
. You just know it.
I remembered my own fears of being eaten, and my parents assuring me that monsters were
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