On the Banks of Gilleland Creek

There are moments as a dad of five boys that just feel right. Where the natural instincts of boys intersects with your interests and vision of what you want for them as a parent. 

So it was on a recent Sunday afternoon. The weather was that palatable mix of 68 degrees, calm, and February that only happens in Central Texas. The sweet grape fragrance of overly-eager Mountain Laurels blooming wafted over the gently rolling acres of Pfluger Park. I was sitting above Gilleland Creek listening to the gentle bubbling of the recent rain water as it rolled down stream, and watching the four older boys playing along the banks. 

This is how it should be. Boys need space, adventure, and interaction with nature. Here they can throw rocks in the water, climb trees, clamber down the limestone banks, and not break things at the house. 

Oh, and also act like impulsive maniacs. 

Enter the 5-year-old. He’s frolicking around the edge of the water when he abruptly whips off his Houston Astros baseball cap, rears back, and chucks it into the moving creek. The creek is bubbling gently, but it’s still moving quickly enough that the hat is already 10ft from him. 

I jump up and take off at a run toward the creek because I’ve learned when something like this happens the number one rule is: go!

If a dog gets loose, a kite or balloon string slips out of a kid’s hand, or a meatball topples off of a pile of spaghetti you act first and think later. You can always slow down, but you only have one chance to act swiftly. 

Plus, this an officially licensed MLB Houston Astros hat that we splurged on for his birthday and those things aren’t cheap. 

So off I go making a beeline for the bridge that the pricey kid hat is headed toward. I cover the 100ft or so in about 2 seconds, while alerting the oldest two boys to the situation on the way. They mobilize instantly. We charge downstream to the nearest bridge like a pack of African wild dogs converging on a wildebeest. One of us is barking. 

The 6-year-old has a stick and tries to use it to impale the hat from the bank. He fails but I admire his ingenuity. 

The 8-year-old has joined me on the bridge and we’re side by side hovering above the two tunnels that the hat will go through in the next three seconds if we can’t nab it. 

The hat floats toward us and the 8-year-old grabs it before it goes under the bridge and into Charybdis’ lair on the other side of the bridge. And by “Charybdis’ lair” I mean the waist deep water that swirls a little. I’m proud of the save nonetheless. 

The 5-year-old is on the bridge now and as his brother gives him his hat, he bursts into tears. 

I don’t understand. It’s completely unreasonable to be upset when you intentionally throw your own hat into the water and it floats away, especially when it’s rescued and returned. 

I don’t understand. Yet, I do. Five-year-old boys are not reasonable. 

As a father of five young boys, there are moments that just seem right. Moments where the natural instincts of boys intersects with the vision of what you’ve come to expect as a parent. 

Such is life on the banks of Gilleland Creek. And fatherhood.