I remember when i was in 6th, 7th, 8th grade. If my parents said I couldn’t do something, I’d piss and moan under my breath or argue outwardly. I distinctly remember thinking back then ‘if I ever have kids I’m going to be the coolest dad ever. I’ll just let them do whatever they want…its not a big deal, etc’.
Never understood why it was a big problem if I was 15 minutes late coming home from a bike ride with my buddies. Why I always had to leave a note (pre cell phone) whenever i went down the street to Bobby’s house. Why the hell are they worried about every little damn thing?
I get it now.
I remember when I was in high school. My mom was so annoying, nagging, controlling. No one could convince me otherwise. And my dad would always make me do stuff I never wanted to do. Mostly helping him fix things and paint. He didn’t need my help and there was no reason for me to be there. No one could convince me otherwise. Boy was I wrong.
I get it now.
Instead of scoffing at the notion, I should have popped off the couch and looked into it,…when my mom walked through the door every once in awhile, groceries in hand, excited about a recent trip to the store, where she talked to several employees and believed I could land a job there.
Or maybe I should’ve willingly participated, asked questions and taken notes (on everything except the cuss words) during the times my old man asked me to help him with any household project. He could do it all. I didn’t care to care. As a result I can’t do shit mechanically as an adult. Wait, I take that back. I can sidle up next to a bunch of dudes looking under the hood, ask a generic stupid question about what the problem is and then throw out a quick ‘looks the it could be the J-wire…maybe a solenoid.’
My mother just wanted what was best for me. She wanted to help me get a job and some needed experience. The same goes for my father, who just wanted me to have some basic mechanical knowledge. And who knows, as a bonus, maybe they were both thinking I’d pick up a passion for something in life along the way.
I get it now.
So as my 11 year old son casually strolls home with zero urgency (over-priced headphones I purchased in both his ears, strutting and rapping with rapid hand motions and head-bobs…decked out in all black clothing) at 2:51 after being told to be home by 2:30 at the latest…I get hit with a huge wave of reality: The next 10-20 years of my life outta be fun.
The punishment?…Let’s just say I’m not going to be the coolest dad ever.
Hopefully someday he will get that.
