The Gesture

A few years ago, my son Zach, couldn't wait to give me a gift he had purchased for me. It was an Iron Man helicopter that he had found and knew I'd love. His beautiful girlfriend, Kendall, had bought him a Captain American version and when he saw it, he knew instantly I'd love it. So he purchased it for me.

He could barely contain his excitement when he gave it me. I could barely contain mine when I tore into the packaging. He thought I'd love it and he was right. We had to wait 20 minutes for it's original flight and I wasn't aware time could move so slowly until that day.

The gesture stood out to me because my son did something so unexpected at such an unexpected time that it really meant something to me.

Iron Man Flies

This little plastic oversized head had a propeller on top and would go like a bat out of hell. Oh it was tons of fun, even though it didn't fly particularly long and often got off course and crashed into a wall or window. The toy was made so that you had to keep your hand under it for it maintain its altitude and stay flying. It was difficult at first but eventually I got the hang of it.

The connection required from Iron Man to the hand below, which in essence controlled its trajectory and its path was not lost on me. The helicopter simply could not operate without interacting with the hand.

Sort of like relationships. It takes two to tango.

Untimely Death

A few weeks ago, I was rearranging my studio at the office. There, on the window sill, Iron Man sat, waiting for me to notice him. I picked him up. It made me smile as it always did. As I held him in my hand, my thoughts turned to Zach and what a special gift this was to me. The boy just plain knows me.

I dug through my cables and found its charging cable - a USB thingabobber (yes my made-up word) and I plugged it in. I went about my business for the next little bit until I noticed the charging light was no longer blinking. Iron Man was ready for flight. And I was ready to fly him.

In my office we have kind of a big lobby area. It was a Saturday and I could fly him without bothering a soul. I powered him on and off he went. It had been a few months, perhaps maybe more, since I had last played with him. The whirl of his helicopter blades are so loud that it often becomes a distraction for people in my office so I rarely flew him. Oh the CEO is playing with his toys again, I imagined them thinking.

But on this day, I could fly him to my heart's content and no one would care. And that's what I planned to do. Fly him. Charge him. Fly him again.

Maybe about 2-3 minutes into playing with it on that fateful Saturday I heard a pop. Iron Man screeched and I heard bits of something rattle in his oversized head. He made one last grasp for altitude and then crashed to the ground. Dead.

I rushed over to pick him up. I cradled him in my hand. He was warm. No hot! There was literal smoke starting to billow from his head. Startled, I dropped him from my hand where he once again crashed to the ground.

He knocked around and came to rest right side up.  There he was, just looking up at me. A lifeless, yet somehow judging look on his helmet.

The thought came rushing over me. I killed Iron Man.

Regrets

I picked up Iron Man, and little bits of plastic and a small screw fell out of the opening of his head. I shook him and could tell whatever mechanical failure had happened, it was fatal. With no Stark Industries offices near by nor any J.A.R.V.I.S to guide me what to do next, I just picked up the pieces and took the little control and threw it away.

It may have taken a day or two, but I regretted that decision. I should have kept Iron Man at least as a symbol of the incredible gesture from my son. I now had regrets that I had thrown it away so callously without even thinking about the symbolism that Iron Man held for me. It was a connection to my son and even if he could not fly, it would have still looked cool on my shelf. A conversation starter at the very least for any who might notice it. But now, I had thrown it away so quickly and so thoughtlessly.

What We Don't Use, Breaks

Iron Man was clearly not built to last. Although his years of service and his many hours of enjoyment make me smile, It also makes me reflect a little bit on relationships. Stay with me for a moment.

How many relationships are fun and exciting when you first discover them? Like Iron Man when I first got him, I would fly him all the time. But eventually I stopped charging him. I set him on the widow sill and stopped playing with him.

Like some relationships we can't get enough of them but eventually we stopping focusing on them. We stop making an effort. We just lose interest.

I have no doubt that Iron Man needed to fly. He was built to fly and give it all he could provided you used him. Maybe if I had flown him a bit more regularly the mechanism that gave him power would have stayed clean, functional and would have been more reliable. Maybe not. But probably.

We often do this with some relationships. We dive back in, full force and push too hard trying to recapture the magic we once had. Yet we wonder why they don't quite give back to us what they once did. They feel flat. Perhaps a little broken.

Like that last flight of Iron Man, lack of attention I had given it was in the end probably its undoing. It tried to perform form me as long as it could but I pushed too hard and the lack of my consistency was too much for it to bare. So it failed and ultimately died.

Much like the relationships we don't really develop, grow and play with. They eventually will break too. And their magic will gone into the abyss of what was once possible.

Perhaps what my son gave me was more than a toy helicopter but rather a lesson in value. I don't know for sure, even if I bought a replacement Iron Man, it would never be the same.

I had my chance and I blew it. I'm so sorry Iron Man.

More than that, I am even more sorry Zach that I didn't think to keep him for my shelf. But your gesture and the memory flying him of him will always make me smile. I love you.

Ripple On!!!

ICYMI: Downtime Learning