Most folks celebrate one or more in the assemblage of traditional holidays, allowing them a reason to celebrate only once a year. Michael has reason to celebrate three days a week: Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday.
That is when the automatic sprinklers come on in our yard. At 7:04 AM on these days, all summer long, the sprinklers set about their moistening duties. There are two sets on the front lawn and one in the back. There’s a drip irrigation system as well, but it doesn’t register on Michael’s radar since it doesn’t blast forth a jet nor issue a fan of spray. Nor does it announce its presence with an airy “whoosh!” followed by the popping up of many sprinkler heads from mysterious, inscrutable locations within the lawn. Michael tries to find these sprinkler heads during other parts of the day when they’re inactive, but so far he’s been unable to locate them. This only deepens their lure.
On these days, should I neglect to get him up at the proper time and he misses the sprinklers in action, I will not hear the end of it. But on the other hand, it makes it really easy to pry him out of bed. All I have to do is enter his room and say “Michael, the sprinklers are on!” and he’s out of bed and down the stairs like he was shot from a gun. He has no problem padding around out there in his jammies and bare feet. If we didn’t have a latch high up on the door frame he’d be outside and checking on the sprinklers at all hours, adult supervision or no.
He’s still confused about what their schedule is, and how that relates to the immediate. He is still stuck in the toddler-esque notion that everything’s either right now, or very soon. So I’ll hear questions about the sprinklers at all times. On the way to Ms. K’s, at dinner time, during story time, just before bed, any time at all.
Michael: “They go on at daytime?”
Daddy: “No, just on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays.”
Michael: “It’s Tuesday?”
Daddy: “No, it’s Friday. You’re going to have to wait a few days.”
Michael: “Thursday?”
Daddy: “Yes, they come on Thursdays, but that was yesterday. Sunday is in two days, and they’ll come on then.”
Michael: “Tomorrow it’s Sunday?”
Daddy: “No, it’ll be Sunday in two days. Today it’s Friday. Then Saturday, then Sunday.”
I’m hoping eventually this exercise will help him figure out the whole “days of the week” concept.
But still I get pestered every day about when the sprinklers are going to come on. Even just after they go off, he asks if they’ll go back on again. He believes I have ultimate control over making them go on and off at my whim.
While that’s essentially true, he doesn’t understand what a pain in the neck it is to reconfigure the timer. Fortunately I’m never left with a span long enough to forget how to operate it, since every time the power goes out or there’s a glitch of some sort, the timer completely forgets its programming. I end up playing with the thing at least every third week throughout the summer months. Not to mention fixing errant valves, the sporadic leak, and dealing with havoc that was wrought upon one poor sprinkler head by the Verizion FIOS installers. Never forgave them for that.
If someone had asked me, before Michael came along, what quality time with my son would be like I would have probably said “playing ball in the yard” or “watching a game together,” or some such typical father-ish notion.
Not even close.
This is it, ladies and gentlemen. Time with my boy.
You can’t but that kind of entertainment. And now you know how to get him out of bed when he’s a teen! Sprinklers in his bedroom in February.
I suppose the rate our water company charges is a trifle for the entertainment value he receives. I’m liking your idea, though.
He must have gotten your engineering gene. I remember the joys of busted sprinkler heads; can’t say that I miss it that much!
I don’t mind if he gets the engineering gene, as long as he doesn’t wear plumber’s pants.
It’s amazing what makes a kid tick sometimes!