Category: Childhood

If there is a book title that accurately describes my son, it would definitely be, “Dude, seriously, what makes you think that’s a good idea?”

Ok that’s probably not an actual book. But it would sum him up pretty well, oftentimes when he is, say, stringing his hammock 40 feet in the air.

But if I were to pick an actual book title that accurately describes my son, it would be a 2017 book titled “I Love Learning; I Hate School.”

This sentiment is what made his high school graduation last week a wonderful end to a really long journey for him.

Many of you know (or know of) Parker. And often people most relate to him being outside catching critters or tromping in the mud or riding his unicycle. Before he was old enough to drive, he would unicycle through the neighborhood to one of his favorite fishing spots, his fishing pole on his shoulder. I would always remind him to make good decisions, not just because it’s the right thing to do, but also because it’s pretty easy to narrow down suspects when it’s described as a “teenager on a unicycle carrying a fishing pole.”

But it was often tough to get Parker excited to go into a building and sit still for eight hours. (Any former teachers of his reading this are no doubt nodding in agreement. Also, any former teachers of mine reading this are probably thinking, “Gee, I wonder who he gets that from…”)

He yearned to be outside and he longed for nature. Now, before you say, “Well, tough. We all have to do it. Suck it up.” I agree, somewhat. That is the deal. We all have to do it. (Now, whether we should all do it the way it’s always been done is a debate for another day.)

And that is why he walked across the stage last Friday night and accepted his diploma. He checked the boxes. And he did so with a lot of help along the way, from some amazing villagers who all helped raise a pretty cool kid.

I am thankful for that elementary school teacher who understood that Parker just didn’t care about chapter books, but she still wanted him to read. So she let him do his book reports on field guides he was reading. She said it was the first time she’s gotten book reports on a salamander field guide followed by a mushroom field guide.

I am thankful for the middle school teacher who, during parent orientation, held up his cell phone. He said, “Parents, whether you like it or not, your kids have access to all of the world’s information. If you want your kids to memorize exact dates, you’ll have to do that at home. I’m not going to teach them when Gettysburg. I’m going to teach them why Gettysburg.”

I am thankful for the high school teachers who “got him” and realized Parker was a really sharp kid who was doing some really cool things, but maybe needed a tweaked approach in some of the ways he learned.

I am thankful for our many naturalist friends who have seen Parker grow up in the woods and in the swamp and on the water, and who have provided guidance, knowledge, and a healthy dose of humor to keep his ego in check.

I am thankful for wonderful friends who have been a safety net/cheering section all through the years.

And of course, I am thankful for a large, loud, wonderful family who definitely gets that Parker is a bird of a different feather, and how they have been there all along the journey encouraging him to fly.

A lot of people have asked us what Parker is doing post-high school. The answer: We’re going to figure it out. He’s taking a gap year and is first doing an internship tracking rare reptiles and amphibians in a nearby national forest, which is pretty on brand.

After that? We’ll figure it out. The idea of the traditional college life is not something that is appealing to him. He is far more interested in tegus than togas, of finding a Farancia, not a fraternity. (A little one-two herpetological humor punch for you there. If you didn’t get it, fortunately, you have your cell phone, and thus access to all of the world’s information.)

But wherever this next journey takes him, I know it will travel through marshes and deserts and rivers and swamps and mountains, with a lot of cool critters along the way. And lots and lots of learning. Because, man, that kid loves learning…

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

Eighteen years ago, I was eagerly awaiting the arrival of my second child, and only son. Our daughter was two years old at the time, and Patrick Whitfield Gibbons was on his way to complete the family. And then, mid-delivery, my wife made an executive decision.

She was in the middle of a C-section, as family members awaited Patrick’s arrival. And then it occurred to her that it was March 17. St. Patrick’s Day. And she wanted none of that.

The doctor told us Patrick was about to be born. “PARKER!” she exclaimed. “HIS NAME IS PARKER NOW!” 

The doctor told us she didn’t have to make that decision right now. “PARKER!” she said, with a really aggressive tone. Never mind that she was in a surgery having a small human cut out of her.

“Yeah, let’s go with Parker,” I said. The doctor and all of the nurses agreed this was not a woman to argue with.

We have been blessed to have one of the most spirited, fun, energetic and adventurous kids in our lives from day one. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that my immediate family is all adults now. I guess that’s equally hard when you spend time around us and realize that there’s really only one person who acts like an actual adult most of the time. (Spoiler alert: Yeah, it’s my wife.)

As a baby, Parker was one of the most easy going critters you could have around. He mostly slept. When he started walking, he mostly ran into things. Constantly. He ran 90 mph through life. One time, we heard him wailing in the den. When we rushed in, we found him standing there, blood streaming down his face. When we asked him what happened, he said, “ I don’t know. I was just playing and then I guess I hit my face?” We took him to the doctor to get what would be the first of many trips for stitches or glue on various cuts. He once even got stitches from a tape measure cut. Because why not?

We moved to Charleston when Parker was heading into sixth grade. Admittedly, he was not thrilled about it. He was leaving the only home he ever knew, as well as his close proximity to lots of extended family. While the move was a tough adjustment, he quickly found that living on the coast provided him an opportunity to let blossom a love of fishing. 

Parker has always been a unique individual, and that is something we have celebrated. He found early on in life that he marched to the beat of a different drummer, and that drummer played a pretty cool beat.

He rides a unicycle. He walks on stilts. He juggles. He does magic tricks. And he loves nature. Boy, does he love nature. If you gave Parker the option of a day playing video games or a day tromping in the swamp, the swamp wins 100 percent of the time.

Parker is a rare spirit, one that I humbly suggest this world needs. He’s a spitfire who can challenge you at one turn, but then surprise you with his warmth and compassion. He wears his heart on his sleeve, which I can relate to, as I do too. He is fiercely loyal to his family. Even his big sister. They may bicker and argue and get in squabbles on family trips (yes, even to this day), but if it came down to defending her, I am fairly certain he lives by the mantra, “You can’t talk to my sister that way. Only I can talk to my sister that way.”

I’m really trying hard to grasp my brain around the fact that our son is now 18. I’m incredibly proud of him, I’m excited for the future, and I can’t wait to see what’s next. And I’m really glad my wife made that executive decision. It just feels right.

Happy St. Parker’s Day.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

I hope everyone is doing as well as possible, and that all of you are taking the opportunity to unplug and disconnect for a bit.

To that end, this week’s column will be free of the current topic at the forefront of everyone’s mind. So enjoy a quick break to enjoy some times when other people thought my wife and/or I were horrible parents.

For the record, I think we fall slightly north of horrible parents. Our kids are 19 and 17, and are, for the most part, good kids. Yes, they do not know how to turn off a light. True, they haven’t not figured how to take shoes upstairs. And of course, they are both masters of the “My parents are soooo lame” eye roll when we do such things as suggest maybe dirty socks don’t need to be in the middle of the den, or recommend against cutting one’s own bangs.

But other than that, I’d say we’ve done an OK job at this thing. But there have been a few times when other folks have viewed our parenting as suspect at best, straight up bad at worst.

Two examples:

When our daughter was about three, we went to Disney World. As we were walking along, with her in a stroller, we passed a woman who stared down at our daughter, and then gave us a glare and shook her head, in obvious disgust at what awful parents we were. My wife and I exchanged, “What was that all about?” questions, but just kept on going. A while later, we stopped and came around to the front of the stroller, to extract Allie. And then we saw where the judgment came in. There she was, holding the costume head of Mickey Mouse. Ha! I kid. No, she was green. Like, almost completely green. And not nauseous green. I mean bright green. Because she had gotten hold of a green crayon and began chewing it, and then rubbing it all over her face. And in her hair. And on her arms. Everywhere. Now, I am not sure if that woman is a parent, but if she is, and this act mortified her – congratulations on having perfect children who don’t eat crayons and paste.

A few years back, my son was at one of our favorite places to go and chill, a fishing pier near our house. At low tide, there is a nice sandbar that reveals itself. The water is only about calf deep. My son would often walk onto the sandbar and fish. He even developed a system where he would put a clam shell at a particular spot on the sandbar, and when the water reached the clam shell when the tide was coming in, it was time to walk back to the pier. I was sitting on a bench at the pier watching him fish that day, and a couple strolled past and began commenting on the awful parents who would let their kid just wander out onto a sandbar because the tide is coming in and blah blah blah. They were about 10 feet from me. I chimed in. “He’s mine. And don’t worry – he’s got a clam marker.” They turned and walked away, but I hope to this day they are still trying to figure out what a clam marker is.

I am sure there are other times when judgmental folks decided to have opinions that were either lacking in critical substance or lacking in a full story. But like I said, I think we’ve done OK. Allie clearly made it through the crayon slathering. And obviously Parker made it off the sandbar.

Of course, I will also acknowledge that sometimes I get on the defensive too quickly about things like this. For example, one time when Parker was out on the sandbar, an older woman happened by, walking very slowly and with a cane. She stared at Parker, out on the sandbar. She called out to me. “Is he yours?” Here we go, I thought. “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

She simply responded, “Well he’s living his best life,” and turned and walked away.

I guess the takeaway from this is to make sure you don’t form opinions too quickly or too strongly. Because sometimes, folks are just enjoying a little fishing and a lot of crayon. And that’s not really hurting anyone.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

I figured everyone could use a break from Coronavirus information today, so I figured I’d lighten the mood and share with everyone about the time I got stuck at the top of a Chick-fil-A playground.

I know your first thought. You’re thinking, “Mike, I didn’t know they had Chick-fil-A playgrounds when you were a kid?” To which I respond, yeah, I was in my mid-30s.

No, this was not a college fraternity reunion with unfortunate yet predictable results.

This was a result of a rescue mission, a bold and daring journey to the top of the playground. And it wasn’t even for my kid.

My daughter was little at the time, maybe four or so. She was at the age where parents take their kids to fast food playground places and let them go and explore on their own. This is doable because the playgrounds are pretty well encased, so the kids are not going to fall.

The only real danger of falling is when a child climbs on the outside of the playground, a problem I would not face for several years until my son entered the mix.

My daughter was always a rule-follower, so I never really had to worry about her. The main problem I would get was other kids telling me that she kept telling them what to do, to which she would often respond, “Well, they weren’t following the rules.” There was a slight problem on occasion that the unfollowed rules were ones that she had created, and probably hadn’t even been shared with anyone else.

My daughter was busy playing around, climbing and sliding and giving orders of rule-following to her fellow playmates when a mother entered the enclosure. Oftentimes, parents would set children loose in the enclosure, because this is Thunderdome and scores must be settled.

Oh, wait. No, not that’s not it. It’s because there is a great big glass wall, and you can sit comfortably in a booth monitoring your child and enjoying your lunch at the same time.

The mom entered and began to call for her son. No answer. She called again. Same result.

Now, oftentimes, when a parent calls for a child and there is no answer, panic can begin to set in. But unless they have tunnelled out Shawshank style, there’s a pretty solid confidence that they are still somewhere in the maze of plastic tubes and tunnels.

Eventually she spied her son. He was way up at the top, clutching a center pole. He looked at his mom and just shook his head. They went back and forth for a few minutes. Each time she would encourage him to come down, his grip would grow tighter and more tears would flow. I asked my daughter to go up and see if she could help him come down, to which she responded by scampering into what looked like the front of a space shuttle. Big help.

After a while, the mother turned to me. “Do you think you can go up there?”

I was a bit taken aback. “Me?” I said. She said, “I can’t go up there,” pointing to a baby in a car seat in the booth. 

Well, I guess. I started my way up the playground. Hey, guess what – Chick-fil-A playgrounds are not designed for full grown adults. I shimmied this way and slid that way turned and curled and twisted, until I finally reached the top. With one final shove, I found myself on the top platform, next to a child who just found out his fear level apparently had even more levels. I tried to calm him. “It’s OK. Your mom sent me.” Those were apparently the magic words, as he screamed and shot off the platform and made his way to the bottom in record time, right into mom’s arms. Problem solved. At least, theirs was.

The platform I was on was at an angle to the lower that it made it really awkward for me to get down. I tried a few times, each time my legs telling me, “Nope. We don’t bend this way.” So, I guess this is where I live now, I thought.

Eventually, I realized the only way for me to get down would be upside down and headfirst, with a big plop on the lower platform, my legs dangling behind me, flailing in the air.

After a few minutes, I made my way down. The mother and her kids were gone, but I assume she was appreciative of my valiant rescue/scare attempt.

In fact the only one who expressed dissatisfaction with it was my daughter, who informed me that is NOT the way you’re supposed to come down. I’ll remember that rule for next time.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

Note from Mike: This column was first published in 2013. My kids are now both teens and well beyond this stage. But I hope it either still rings true for you, or has a new special meaning for those who maybe didn’t have ones at this stage six years ago. Merry Christmas.

When did you first see him?

It was, I’m pretty sure, 1980 for me.

When I was a kid, Christmas morning was always celebrated in our living room. In my parents’ house the staircase that leads down to the first floor is next to a wall that separates us from our Christmas bounty. The third step was key – no descent past the third step.

That tradition has continued with my family. We have a similar setup, and the third step is my kids’ starting line of awesomeness. When you’re on the third step, you wait in anticipation (Santicipation!) while Mom and Dad make a fire, get the coffee going, whip up some hot chocolate. And you know – YOU JUST KNOW!!! – that something fantastic awaits you on the other side of that wall. He made it to our house. You know he did!

But before Christmas morning arrived and you sat perched on your literal or figurative third step, many of you no doubt set out to see for yourself the Big Man at work.

I have three older sisters, so I have to say that it was pretty amazing that, by the time I was 8, no one had suggested to me that you could not see him at work. I decided I would stay up extra late, even pretending to be asleep if my parents came up to check on me. I made one try to come downstairs and check and see if he was there, but my mother, for some strange reason, was in the living room. (I assumed she, too, was wanting to see him.) She put me back to bed, and I started drifting off. I’d get up in a few, I assured myself.

The next morning, as I sat on the third step, I was absolutely certain I had, in fact, woken up earlier in the evening and seen him. He had been there. I knew it. When my parents let us crash the threshold, and I saw a Millennium Falcon and a Han Solo action figure and who knows what else, it confirmed everything I had thought. I KNEW that was him!

I was talking the other day with some folks who also knew of those who had seen him. Some were certain they had. Others knew people who had. But, rest assured, Santa has been seen doing his work by plenty of folks. Why so many doubters?

My kids are 10 and 13 now. I do not know if they have seen him. I think that’s something you probably keep to yourself, as it’s the most magical secret you can know, and spilling the beans to your old folks might jeopardize that.

But I know this much – I have seen him since 1980. I’ve seen him quite a few times over the past decade. And he does just like you think he does – he shows up in a flash. He fills stockings. He does some last minute toy construction. One time, he even had his elves assemble a trampoline in the backyard at our house. And here’s something I never knew when I snuck down and most certainly saw him in 1980 – Mrs. Claus is always there, and actually does WAY more than he does.

I know my daughter will not come down looking for him this year. She’s 13. And that’s OK. If my son comes looking for him – he’s 10 – this will most likely be the last year for a while.

All of us hit that window where we stop looking for him. But that window opens up again down the road.

I feel confident he’ll be at our house this year. And I have a feeling my son will be in his bed, one last time, plotting his time when he can sneak down and catch him in action. And I hope he sees him.
Because I’ve seen him. Time and time again …

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, you can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike.

 

If you have never had the joy of shopping for shoes with a 16-year-old young man, I invite you to embark upon this adventure: Ask your dog what kind of shoes it would like. When he stares at you blankly, ask him then what size he wears. Wait for blank stare. Thus is life with a 16-year-old.

We had this delight recently when our son needed new shoes. He wears flip flops about 11.5 months out of the year, because those require the least amount of effort, and when it comes to fashion, that seems to be the teen boy bottom line.

But on occasion you need to wear actual shoes. Such was the case recently when we were heading to an event and our son needed non flip-flop shoes. My wife asked him if he wanted to go get shoes. His response was a long, drawn-out “Mom,” in which “Mom” has about 18 syllabes. She said she could go buy the shoes without him, but needed to know what size he wears. Cue “Mom,” but with 22 syllables.

In case you are wondering why we don’t know the size of our son’s shoes, it’s because he is at that age where he is growing at radioactive rates, and there is no telling from day-to-day what size anything is. Buy him some pants today, and they are clam diggers by the end of the week.

So my wife went to the store and bought some shoes. This is also a risky endeavor. My son has never been picky on brands and such, but I can also understand if we bring home something that he feels like no one his age would wear.

Alas, my wife is good like that. She picked out a pair he loved. And they were several sizes too small. He tried to get his foot in them, but it was a no-go. By a long shot.

Because my wife had already logged her miles on this venture, I told her I would take them back and get a new size. The ones she had bought were size 9. I asked my son what size he thought he could use. I should have asked the dog. I would have gotten the same reaction.

I opted to go for my size – 11. My wife thought I was overshooting with the size, but I rolled the dice. Having been on the fast track growth pattern in my teens, I know what it’s like to grow disproportionately and fast. I brought home the 11s. Perfect fit.

These shoes were gold stars for him, and he wore the heck out of them for weeks. And he got to where he would wear them when were tromping out in the woods. And that puts some wear and tear on shoes. While these shoes were still fine, he wanted a pair that was set aside just for school. Fair enough. I told him I could get another pair, and said we could go to the store and find some. “Can’t you just go and get them for me?” Fine. Yes, I’m an enabler. But it’s slightly better than being stuck in a shoe store with a brooding teen who would rather be fishing.

When I got to the shoe store, I started looking around and realized that there were a ton of shoes that looked somewhat like his shoes. I called my wife and asked her to send me a picture of Parker’s shoes. I approached the counter and showed the clerks the picture. Now, you often hear about the indifference of store clerks. These were not those clerks. They were aces. One of them eyed the picture and said, “Yep. That’s a (insert whatever the name of the shoe is here because I surely don’t remember it). Follow me.” In about five seconds, we had a box of the new shoes in hand. 

I brought the shoes home, and they are a perfect addition to his modest shoe collection. I get that a 16-year-old has no desire to go shoe shopping. I don’t blame him. He’s got better things to do. Like wonder why his parents are asking him such lame questions about shoes.

Mike Gibbons was born and raised in Aiken, S.C. A graduate of the University of Alabama, he now lives in Mt. Pleasant. You can e-mail him at scmgibbons@gmail.com or follow him on Twitter @StandardMike or at www.mikeslife.us.