Pillow Fight
by
Jeff Stimpson
I'm settled in for the evening -- which to Ned
seems to mean that I've stepped through the front door and unzipped
my coat -- when he says, "Play Pillow?"
Sometimes Ned likes to fall into my stomach. Other
times, he likes to jump on my crotch. Still other times he will just
walk on my back, which I don't mind since five years of fatherhood
have taught me it's the closest thing I'll get to a massage.
The action takes place on our bed, a broad, flat,
soft space where little bones are unlikely to hit anything hard once
it's cleared of such landmines as a hardcover book, one of Jill's
bigger belt buckles, or much change. I clear the bed until I'm sure
the only thing Alex and Ned could probably hit are each other:
Nothing scoops at my heart like the clunk of two little skulls
coming together, unless it's Jill demanding "What happened!?"
afterwards.
Guys rough-house. I used to rough-house -- "rassle"
-- with my big brother. He was nine years older, but I finally got
him to the floor when I was about 26. My mother used to cheerlead:
"Cut it out 'fore you break your necks!"
Rough-housing with your little boys, I've always
heard, is one of fatherhood's most robust pleasures, a special one
reserved for dad. You don't see too many moms take their toddlers
and pretend they're James T. Kirk on a hostile planet. "My little
bear- Oh, Alex. No. Sweetie, my neck!" says Jill, as Alex gets her
in a good grip for The Bronco Buck (see below). Also, nobody ever
mentioned dad's nausea -- the heat makes me woozy, along with Ned
and Alex's little feet coming down on my skull until it feels like a
canned ham in a pile driver -- but I take the condition as a
reminder that I'm pushing 42, and Alex and Ned are not. Ten minutes
into it, I'm murmuring to myself like an outfoxed superhero:
Losing ... power ... Must ... conserve ... strength ...
I forget when Ned started this (too many blows
with the little feet, maybe). He used to ask to play Pillow by
demanding, "Put your head down!", but lately he just says, "Please."
He soon summoned Alex, with whom I never rassled. He never seemed to
want more than the occasional tickle, which he asked for by saying,
"Again?" "Alex, c'mon. Play Pillow!" Sometimes Alex will just
come running when he hears Ned's alarm, which to the rest of us is
just piercing laughter. Alex comes running and bolts onto the bed.
Sometimes he tries to burrow under me. Other times we go for
something more acrobatic.
On my little sons I practice several kinds of
takedowns:
The Bronco Buck: Alex
and Ned climb on my back one at a time. My head is low, my face
buried in the down blanket. I can't breathe; I'm sweating and
getting a headache; they don't care. Sometimes Alex will pull my T
shirt back down if it's hiked up on my back, but other than that my
own sons don't care. As if smelling my blood, this is their
favorite. They wrap their arms around my neck, brace their legs
against my rips, and let me buck them off over the shoulder. This
allows them a scrumptious roll on the mattress, unless I
miscalculate and buck one of them into another. "Bump my head!"
Ned complains, rubbing. Alex just giggles until he realizes it
hurts, then lapses right into crying, then back to giggling. "I'm
okay," says Ned. "You okay, dad?"
The Quarterback Sack:
My favorite. Shoulder to chest (spearing with your make-believe
football helmet is a penalty ...), arms around the shoulders, full
follow-through to the turf. Trash-talk as I let them up. They giggle
insanely.
The Jujitsu Toss:
Variation on the Bronco Buck. I sweep my arm back and then forward,
cutting Alex's legs right out from underneath him. Sort of
carry/drop him, preferably face down. If face-up, follow through
with vigorous tickling. Check everyone for fractured necks.
The Simple Shove:
Quick and efficient, heel of the hand -- gently -- to the chest
bone. This works especially great on Ned, and allows him to ham it
up a little bit, as if acting for the ref. He's getting taller, and
he falls like a tree.
Once in a while one of them will clip me in the
eye, and tearfully I make a mental note to pick up a pair of
goggles. Alex starts to tickle my foot. "No fair!" I bark. Sometimes
we play while Jill is working at the computer nearby. Once after a
spectacular jujitsu toss, I looked up to see her staring.
Is she going to congratulate me? I wondered. "You
wanna watch their heads?" she said.
God forbid I try to take a break to eat dinner,
give them a bath, or clear my aching head (... losing ... power
...). "Noooooo!" shrieks Ned. "Play Pilloooooo!" It took me a
long time to figure out who the "pillow" was; one too many blows
with the little feet, maybe. But I still outlast them, until they've
stopped bolting and kicking and instead just plop onto me like
sacks. It is a manly game, and we will play it again tomorrow and
tomorrow and forever.
Copyright 2003 Jeff Stimpson, all rights reserved
