I must be a damn fool. A DAMN fool! Never, in my wildest dreams, in my foolhardy notions, did I realize there were styles — actual styles! — of parenting. Did you know this? Do you have one? It’s apparently just like clothing … plaid, skinny jeans, 70s post-hippie chic, drank two 12-packs and woke up in a kilt three days later. All styles.
Last flight of the kindergartner
She had to say it again. Her tone sounded … well, it sounded like she thought I was an imbecile: “Yes! TOMORROW is the last day of kindergarten.” OK, I am sort of an imbecile. We men don’t compute things until they’re laid out in front of us with neon and barbecue sauce slathered all over. We should pay better attention. We should listen once in a while, but that requires more brain cells than we have in the bank.
Things you Never … EVER … Do with a Kid in the Room
You can do a lot of things when there’s a 4-year-old in the room: You can juggle knives. You can teach the kid how to breathe fire using kerosene and a lighter. You can commit federal crimes and embezzle billions of dollars from unsuspecting companies. But what you can’t do — what you must NEVER do! — is let a scary scene from a scary movie flash on the TV or computer while that child is watching. Eyeballs will pop out. Hair will curl. And you’ll be explaining (and lying about) that scene for the next 12 or 13 years. Or at least until her lawyers have finished working you over. I learned this lesson the hard way the other night. We were at my brother’s house for a cookout, and my sister-in-law was explaining her Halloween costume. Only, there is no explaining her Halloween costume. It’s an obscure character from that quirky, spooky, goofy 80s flick, “Beetlejuice.” Seen it? Know who Delia Deetz is? Of course you don’t. Nobody does. My wife had never even seen “Beetlejuice,” so my sister-in-law thought she would show on the computer a scene from the flick.
Dancing With the Devil … While Navigating Disneyworld
“You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” It’s a question The Joker asks Batman right before he shoots him. A great movie line, and one I thought about while braving the unrelenting crowds that swarmed through the streets and rides of Disney World this Memorial Day weekend. There are much wiser ways to take your life into your own hands. You can smear a meat-flavored cupcake on a sleeping lion. You can run out into traffic. You can charge into a biker bar and yell, “Ya’ll ride a bunch of girl’s bikes and look like leather pansies.” All would definitely get you killed. But if you’re gonna’ go, you want the quick and painless route. Not to die a slow agonizing death in scorching heat while herds of tourists trample your poor, broken body. Crumpled on the ground as they roll over you with strollers and $6 beverages, you cry, “Why didn’t I check the calendar before I booked the room?” You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight? Yes, yes I have. OK, it wasn’t that bad. As Memorial Day weekends go, I’d rate it as tame. Remember: I’m a third generation Floridian. Buried in our DNA coding are the tactics and survival skills that our forefathers used thousands of years ago to brave holiday crowds at primitive theme parks. They honed these skills while taking their children on rides like “It’s a Pterodactyl World” and “The Real Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Understanding the Dad on the Fence
I never understood why he was always there. Standing alone along the fence line or hanging out in the empty, sun-drenched stands. It was high school soccer practice. Practice, for goodness sake! But there he was. Every day it seemed. Every time we rolled out onto the field. I just couldn’t understand why he would hang out and watch a bunch of knuckleheads run through monotonous drills, get yelled at by a coach and try at every opportunity to drop some poor, unsuspecting teammate’s shorts. Most of us didn’t want to be there. So why would a parent? Tampa’s weather can be terminal. It’s such a ferocious mix of heat and humidity. In 20 minutes, it could fully cook a bag of rice left out on the sidewalk. Dense and sweltering, it burned your lungs and squeezed you like a sandwich press. Then a man with a whistle barked at you to run laps until your feet swelled up like watermelons. When guys dropped, we would just bury them right there on the field and keep on running. So to me it made no sense why my dad showed up all those afternoons. There wasn’t much to see, and there had to be better things to do at the end of a long day. Why was he always there?