Dylan Stafford

You know those rectangle lids you see on sidewalks, and sometimes you see them in the grass? I used to think those were covers for electrical or irrigation equipment. But now, from my 3-year-old son, I’ve learned that those rectangles are really roofs of the homes where monsters live. Jackson calls them “monster signs”, and we can’t pass one anymore without stopping and running over to it and jumping on it and waking up the monster inside.

It’s best to jump with both feet, or stomp dramatically with one foot at a time, and stare at the ground and yell “Wakey Wakey”.

“Dad, this is a green monster. And this is a red monster. Do you think they’re waking up yet?”

“Yes, I think we’re waking them up. I think I can hear this one starting to roar. Where’s the silver one? Isn’t there one with stripes?”

“Yeah Dad, they’re over there. We gotta go wake them up too.”

Yesterday, when I picked him up from daycare at UCLA, we spent 30 minutes running around, dancing on top of Monster Signs. I was carrying Jack’s blanket, his lovey from school, about seven pieces of artwork which were various pages of finger painting, and a branch from a tree which was his “favorite”. It was a windy afternoon in SoCal. His school sits at the bottom of a hill, and there’s a large empty triangle of land that he likes to explore. We ran up and down the hill several times, me carrying all that stuff and Jackson squealing each time he found the next Monster’s home hidden out in the grass.

He was wearing Crocs, not sneakers, and I kept worrying he’d fall as we raced up and down the hill. He didn’t. He was fine and the air was cool and the wind was blowing and it felt like the start of fall.

When I put Jack to bed I thought he’d be tired from all the extra running around and fresh air. But he wasn’t. He still had energy to spare at 9pm, when normally he’s running out of gas.

“I want books and a story,” he proclaimed.

We read three books. And then I made up a story about witches and superheroes and Jackson. It was a short story, and it didn’t make any sense because I was more tired than he was. I left him alone and about 20 minutes later he finally fell asleep, sprawled among all his lovies and pillows. I don’t know how he can sleep like that but he does. It always looks like he’s crash landed, rather than gone to sleep.

When I went to bed, I went in and stared at him sleeping. This is what being the daddy of a three-year old feels like. Monster signs. And stories. And lovies. And sticks and squealing and running around. And finally–finally–sleep.