“Whatever you do, DON’T GET OUT OF THE CAR!” she said … through clinched teeth.
Lives seemed to depend on it. I felt the weight of the words, and thought carefully about what I should say next. I’m a mature, thoughtful, relatively intelligent parent who thinks deeply about things.
“Say WHAT?!?” I exclaimed. “This is America! You can’t tell me what to do. I have rights, you know? I’ll get out of the car and roll around on the hood like a bad 1980s music video if I want! Don’t think I won’t, either.”
Yep, pretty much nailed it. Mature, thoughtful dad – 1. Kid – O
This was all over tennis practice pickup. I was being dispatched to collect my middle school daughter from the courts. Seemed simple enough. I had to be there by a certain time … SHARP! I felt kind of like an Uber driver and a stock car racer rolled into one. I thought about buying driving gloves.
I felt cool!
Then I got my real orders: DON’T GET OUT OF THE CAR! Stay out of sight at all times. If you are seen by anyone — even a Chinese spy satellite flying over — that’s IT for you. You’ll never be allowed out of the house again. You won’t be able to walk me down the aisle one day. I will sell all your financial passwords on the Dark Web. It’ll get real, dad! You got that?
At least, that’s what I read into it. It made me wonder if my child had been hanging out with guys named Vinnie who had brass knuckles and made a point of saying, “I’m not in the mob. It’s more of a … knitting circle!”
I have a bit of an over-active imagination.
But why can’t I get out of the car?!? Do I smell bad? Do I have a twig sticking out of my hair again? Have I … GASP! Oh no … Have I become … embarrassing dad?
OMG! I have!!!
If you have to ask whether you’re “embarrassing dad,” you’re embarrassing dad! If you have a newspaper column and you write things like “OMG!” and then ponder whether you’re embarrassing dad, YOU’RE EMBARASSING DAD!!!
And most of all, if you’re title has these three letters in it — D-A-D — you are most certainly embarrassing dad!
I have a third arm, and a nose on my forehead. I tell bad jokes and act like The Fonz in bargain-bin plaid golf pants. I snort, have a squeaky voice and say things like, “The square root of 42 is also a number … but I don’t know it.”
I thought I was cool, relatively so, but now I’m confined to the car.
OMG! I’m the adult equivalent of cooties!
So, I pulled up, parked and sat there. The kid came out, got in and we drove off. No rolling around on the hood. No yelling out, “My you look purdy in your little tennis skirt!” I might be embarrassing, but I ain’t no dummy. She’ll change her mind, too. See me for who I REALLY am. Especially next week … when I show up in the driving gloves!