Beyblades: 32 Minutes of Bitter Agony for 1.9 Seconds of Sheer Glory

“3…2…1….Let iiiiiiit RIP!”

My six-year-old and I shout at the top of our lungs one early Saturday morning.

Thud.

I watch as the small, three-piece sprocket crashes on the coffee table taking a little piece of my heart with it.

Whish…whish…whhiiiiiish…

I look up and see my sleepy-eyed six-year-old jerking his shoulder so hard and so far back I’m a little worried he might dislocate it.

He rips the black cord of the Beyblade Launcher with all the faithful optimism you’d expect from a first-grader, but it doesn’t budge.

We didn’t rip shit.

No big deal. We got this. I say calmly, twisting the three-piece space-looking top aimlessly into the launcher, unsure if I’m doing anything to make the thing actually stay in place.

We draw our elbows back and draw our launchers in unison. We squint and make eye contact exchanging nods for confidence.

3. 2. 1. Let it…..

Thud.

Whish……whish…whiiiiish.

I wasn’t prepared for this. How to not flip your shit while trying to assemble a toy recommended for ages six and under is not really a topic that gets covered in a lot of parenting books.

I also felt I should have been prepared for a moment like this. I learned to blow into the crevices of game cartridges to repair them. I tightened and replaced bicycle chains, wrapped foil around tv antennas and downloaded loads of copywritten music for no cost. In the heyday of all 90’s kids, there wasn’t a creative entertainment problem we couldn’t solve. But, twenty years later, here I am sitting on the family couch trying to prevent myself from rage quitting in front of my first grader.

He studies my every move, increasing the tension in the room, but also improving my restraint. There’s something about the messy-headed, pajama-clad boy that makes me a better person.

Deep breath. Let’s try this again. I muster another round of assurances.

3…2…1 Let ittttt RIP!

We bump forearms trying to get the Beys to launch, mine flys off the launcher like it's supposed to but lands outside the game arena and detonates into three pieces.

I let out a deep sigh of frustration.

The Beyblades look easy enough to assemble from the instructions, but I’m struggling to figure out the correct order of assembly and once I do, things still don’t seem to fit right.

As I apply just the right amount of pressure at the exact angle, a piece slips out of my grip and rolls underneath the couch.

Whishh….whish….whiiisshh….

My son’s blade is still on the launcher, but he’s trying. I am impressed and annoyed by his persistence.

I lurch to the floor and reach under to retrieve the missing pieces. I come back with the Beyblade, twenty-seven cents and a new determination to enjoy this toy the way the Japanese anime gods intended.

But, my resolve quickly fades as short, but aggravation-inducing moments of alternating successes and failures wear me down. The both of us coming close, but never quite launching into battle as we’d hoped.

I remain calm but keeping my frustration from showing is hard work. Parenting has always tested the limits of my patience. But, before I hit peak rage I come to an important realization.

We weren’t having very much fun.

Or at least I wasn’t.

In my pursuit of happiness, I let the process consume me.

Creating a unique experience for your children is great, but who are we really creating the experience for?

It has been a recurring theme for me as a parent. I get so wrapped up in the planning that I struggle to experience the moments as they occur. New opportunities get squandered in the process of trying to make everything matter.

It reminded me of the first big birthday my wife and I hosted. It was a two-year-old party for our oldest son. We planned to have it at our house. My wife did decorations, a full menu, and a photo booth. I set up the backyard with a pentathlon of water toys and small activities for the three other toddlers in attendance. When our friends and family arrived we catered, we socialized, we refilled sandboxes. We set up an outdoor cooling system on the back porch.

We got pictures of the cake but never had time for a slice.

By the time it was just us and the birthday boy we were both exhausted and overwhelmed by the mess that became of our house. It felt wrong to have invested so much time in an event and then not really enjoy it’s best parts.

And so I gave myself an overly-simple suggestion.

“All I need today is to be a good dad.”

The noun in the sentence is replaceable. Mom, stepmom, uncle, at the end of the day the kids only need our attention. Reminding yourself of the actual job requirements for a parent has helped me ease the anxiety trying to make everything else line up perfectly all the time.

Whenever I think back to my most memorable moments, the place I was is secondary to the people I was with. The right people can make waiting in the DMV line enjoyable. And the things that count to our children don’t require assembly instructions or an advanced degree in physics.

So, I took a step back and reminded myself,

“All I need today is to be a good dad.”

We pick the Beyblades up for one final showdown.

The Bey’s are locked in place and I’m feeling good again about our chances.

3….2…1…Let it rip!!!

This time both of our Beyblades fire perfectly into the arena.

Both of us, 35-year-old man and 6-year-old boy become briefly mesmerized by the glorious rotating discs.

Our eyes lock on the grey and red arena. The Beys make a whirring sound as they spin, teetering close to one another, but just out of reach.

We did it. We finally let it rip.

In what feels like an entire morning (which was probably closer to 32 minutes) I’m proud we were able to finally launch the blades.

Then, the two-year-old little brother materializes out of thin air, slaps the entire arena off the coffee table and shoots an innocent grin to the both of us.

I look at my oldest son.

He looks at me.

The youngest looks at me too.

Everyone still in their pajamas.

“Well, that was fun. Anyone up for some Hungry Hungry Hippos?”