Archives for August 2009

He said it with all of the earnestness and honesty an 8.5 year-old can muster, “I can’t wait until I am a grown up.” I smiled and said that he really could and reminded him that he needed to get his shoes on now.

He looked up at me and told me that he was moving as fast as he could. I smiled again and said that I knew, now get them on. It is the typical banter between the two of us. The two of us were in the living room of his friend’s home, the end of a play date.

Just off to the side of us his friend’s mother was in the middle of negotiating a truce between two of her children and trying to keep the baby from tearing off her diaper. It was clearly time to go, but the joy of being 8.5 is that those other things aren’t important. In between fighting with his little brother the friend was trying to negotiate terms for my son to stay longer.

I was pleased to see that they had so much fun and had I the ability, I would have let him stay longer. But their family had things to do and so did we. So the decree was final, play time was over.

Safely ensconced inside the car he started in on me about why he couldn’t wait to be a grown up and old enough to take care of himself. He didn’t mean anything buy it and he didn’t say anything that I had said when I was his age. But he managed to catch me at a bad moment, so I responded.

I asked him if he was ready to worry about paying for a mortgage and for school for kids. I asked him if he was ready to spend sleepless nights worrying about how to make it all work. And then he told me that it couldn’t be that hard, that grown ups had money and answers.

For a moment I was thankful that he couldn’t see my face because I was certain that if he could he’d know for certain how wrong that impression was. He doesn’t need to know that I am not kidding about the sleepless nights or the moments of self doubt. He doesn’t need to know that yesterday another friend called to tell me that he and his wife are splitting up and might it be possible for me to help watch his kids occasionally.

He doesn’t need to know that the only thing I know for certain is that I really don’t know anything. Yes, it is true, I am in the early to middle stages of a crisis. Stuff is going on all around me and I am not certain how to avoid getting smacked by the things flying through the air.

I keep on driving, my eyes on the road and softly explain that he needs to enjoy the time as a kid. There will be plenty of time to be a grown up. He may not see it now, but he’ll spend the majority of his life on the other side of the kid wall. Funny, he keeps trying to climb over to my side and all I want to do is jump back on his.

Twenty years ago I spent endless summer nights on the beach with a girl who had dark hair, dark eyes, a nice tan and no desire in life other than to spend time with me. I had no responsibilities outside of myself.

But that was then and this is now.

He asked/told me that my life was better because no one tells me what to do. I laughed and reminded him that the grass is always greener. Sure, no one tells me what to do. I really can do almost anything I want, but there is one major problem with that.

He asked me what it was and I told him that it is called responsibility and conscience. He nodded his head and I could see that he understood the concept. “I get it dad, you mean that you do the right thing because when you don’t you feel guilty.”

“Yep, that is it,” I said. But what was left unsaid was that you don’t always know what the right thing to do is. Some situations are very clear and some are not. At the end of the day, we do our best to try and make good choices and that is it.

If I didn’t have children I might have to go out and buy a few if for no other reason than they provide endless amounts of blog fodder. Sometimes I read through old posts about them and find myself laughing hysterically at the things I find.

One of the better collections of these posts can be found at Not Quite a Recap- Let’s Talk about Body Parts. Alternatively you can also take a look at I am In Love. There is some crossover between the two, but you are smart enough to figure it out.

Anyhoo, there has been an ongoing discussion with the children about what is appropriate to discuss with others. The few readers who know me well recognize that this is sort of a foreign thing to me. I am not a formal type of guy. I like to take a laid back and easy going approach. That is a fancy way of saying that I am not a prude.

However child rearing requires teaching those rascals many different things so that they have the skills to interact with anyone. So we work with them on manners and try to make sure that they know how to behave like civilized people as opposed to the crazed wild animals they sometimes imitate.

Allow me to provide an example. The dark haired beauty recently accompanied me on a trip to Target. While there I was greeted by the results of seven cups of coffee and had to make a quick trip to the men’s room. Initially she was less than happy about this, at five years old she is very clear on which side she thinks she belongs on.

Dad: It is ok to go in with me.
Daughter: No it isn’t. I am a girl.

Dad: Yes, I know but you still have to come in.
Daughter: I am not a boy.

Dad: I know, but I have to pee and you can’t stand outside by yourself.
Daughter: They’ll see me in there and I don’t like it.

Dad: So close your eyes while you are inside.
Daughter: I can’t. Someone might pee on me.

Dad: Trust me, they won’t.
Daughter: Dad, boys don’t know how to aim. They pee on the seat.

Dad: I don’t and I am not going to use the toilet.
Daughter: You can’t go in your pants.

Dad: I am not going to. I am going to use the urinal.
Daughter: Can I use it too?

Dad: No. It is not for girls.
Daughter: That is not fair! I want to use it!

Dad: When you see it you’ll understand why you can’t use it.
Daughter: Can’t you wait until we get home.

Dad: Not this time. We’re going in.
Daughter: Ok.

With that we walked inside and I took the lay of the land. Two stalls were occupied so even if I wanted to use them I could not. I headed over to the urinal on the far side and stationed the dark haired beauty next to the sink.

And then this next exchange took place.

Dad: What are you staring at?
Daughter: Nothing.

Dad: You’re looking at me.
Daughter: Can’t you go to the bathroom and talk. Mom can do it.

Dad: That is good for mom.
Daughter: You can do it too. Take your penis out and pee and talk to me.

In case you are wondering those are words you don’t want to hear come from your daughter.

Dad: I can’t do it with you staring at me. Count the dots on the ceiling.
Daughter: Why?

Dad: Sigh, because I need to know how many there are.
Daughter: Daddy, someone is pooping. They keep farting and it stinks. I want to leave.

Dad: Shh…We don’t need to announce that to everyone.
Daughter: Your penis is bigger than Little Jacks.

Dad: I thought that you are supposed to be counting.
Daughter: Sorry, I forgot.

Moments later we are finished with our bathroom adventure and we head out to finish shopping. We hit the toy section to buy a birthday gift for one of her friends and while we are standing in Barbie heaven she asks me about Ken.

Specifically she wants to know why Ken is missing pieces of his anatomy. It is a reasonable question, but I don’t have a reasonable answer, so I punt. I tell her that I just don’t know. For a moment or two that seems to hold her, but then she makes life more interesting.

She looks at a woman that works there and asks her why Ken suffered a tragic circumcision. That would be fine, other than she tells the woman that daddy has a penis that she has seen lots of times, so why doesn’t Ken.

Good lord, this kid has just managed to make me blush. It is an innocent comment. I don’t routinely walk around the house naked, but she has seen me in the birthday suit. It is the kind of question that offers the opportunity to get you in trouble, it shouldn’t but…

Somehow I am sure that my parents never worried about this sort of thing. Even if one of us had asked them the question, in that time no one was going to call child protective services. It really caught me off guard. I make a goofy smile and quietly walk away.

During the ride home we have a discussion about what is appropriate to discuss and what isn’t. A few hours later she decides to tell her mother and brother about the expedition and what happened. Only she has her version of the story which goes something to the effect of “Daddy says we can’t talk about his penis with other people.”

Great googly moogly, this girl is determined to make me lose all of my hair. Her mother and I spend the rest of the meal explaining to her and her brother what I really said and what it means. I am fairly certain it worked, but every now and then I wait for the bomb to drop. With the luck I have had lately she’ll decide to tell all of her classmates and Officer O’Malley her version of the story.

It is a damn good thing I love her, because otherwise I’d have to scream. I can only imagine what the teenage years will be like.