Idle Hands
Having Sandler is often a reminder of all the exciting and crazy stuff I used to do when I was a kid. I notice this most when the novelty of holiday gifts has worn off and it’s time to come up with fresh ways to pass time. The activities he comes up with are a perfect blend of his creativity and blissful ignorance. Often times it even unites him and his sister to come up with a new game—that inevitably ends with a three hour clean up or one kid stuck to something, hurt and in tears.
Keeping Sandler on his skateboard is imperative to our routine. Without it, he defines “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop” — and the “workshop” is our house. The minute he steps off his board and into the house his mind starts racing; ready to come up with the next big invention or prank. No matter how big the mess or how painful the outcome, I can’t help but watch and admire his diligence and amusing ideas. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried he would miss out on typical childhood experiences when learning of his diagnosis, but in all honesty, he is much more savvy than I ever was when it comes to mischievous behavior.
My inventions were rarely successful; least of which was a transportation device I came up with the day before picture day at school one year. I put my metal wheel roller skates on, tied a long rope around my stomach and attached the other end to an out-of-control, Airedale Terrier and yelled, “Go Willy! Go!” Willy went all right. He dragged me on my face for two blocks behind him. As for my imaginary games, I played most of those in front of a mirror; no one but me could understand the strange complexity of whatever it was I was trying to play. Then there were pranks. I don’t believe I even understood the concept of a prank. The only prank I ever came up with was one I inflicted upon myself. I went across the street to a ditch—filled with poison ivy—picked a handful of leaves, rubbed them all over my face and body, and found out really quickly that I am not only terrible at pranks, but one should not do them to themselves because they can really hurt and are not that funny.
Knowing Sandler has my DNA, it is always interesting seeing what he will do with spare time. I saw a glimpse recently while I was bedridden with the flu. I reminded him and his sister that it would be very helpful if they would be kind to one another and play with as little fighting as possible; they both agreed. The house was quiet. There were even a few giggles and an occasional, “You got roasted!” But they were playing together, being inventive and having fun. The only help that was required of me was that I tie a blindfold over Sandler’s eyes, which I did happily, and sent him off running into walls.
It was then that the pain of my flu and headache returned immediately. There were combinations of scents I could not identify or stomach. I rolled myself out of bed to check on the peaceful game of “Taste Test” that was taking place. It was apparent a lot of garlic was involved, some sauces that had probably expired three years ago and some other disgusting, thick mixtures of sorts. What really stumped me was the cup of ranch dressing with wood chips in it. I glanced around the house and realized my progressive thinkers had not only found a pencil sharpener, but figured out how to empty it and serve the shavings as a seasoning. I was promptly reminded that quiet equates to trouble. Never underestimate idle hands.
We are all a little safer with Sandler on a skateboard, within the confines of a cement park—apparently the apple does not fall too far from the tree.
- Nikki