If my kids ever become smart, I could be in trouble.
They’re not dumb kids, by any means. But they’re still at the stage of their development at which their intelligence is hit-or-miss. They can program the DVR, but they’re still a little bit afraid of the dark. They can beat me in a game of Connect Four, but they think Ben Stiller is a comic genius. That sort of thing.
As a parent, it’s my job to identify their areas of weakness and exploit them whenever possible. Yes, this is fair. Someday they’ll be able to wheel me in front of the television and leave me there for hours on end, regardless of whether they even remember to turn the TV on. This is my only opportunity to preemptively get even. That said, I know the clock is ticking. At some point, we’ll be on even ground, but for now, life could be worse.
Here’s an example of what I’m talking about. Colette and I are constantly telling the kids that they need to eat healthier. Snacks are fine, we tell them, but they need to be balanced by fruits, vegetables, and other things that are, we’re sorry to inform you, horrible to eat. When we go Mediocre Buffet (not its real name), which the kids love for reasons unknown to me, we make them get at least one serving of fruit, one serving of veggies, and one serving of meat.
Being kids, they never want to agree to this. Eleven-year-old Gustavo (not her real name) is the worst. She avoids fruits and veggies as vigorously as possible and dislikes any meat that has not been reconstituted. She tries to insist that the corn dogs she found at the buffet constitute meat. I clarify to her that hot dogs are mostly lips and anuses and therefore not actual meat. This earns me a horrified glare from Gustavo (and, for that matter, Colette), but hey, sometimes you have to inflict knowledge on children, whether they like it or not.
Anyway, so every time we’re at Mediocre Buffet, I force Gustavo to eat healthy stuff. It’s always a struggle, and she always tries to eat as little of it as possible so she can then load her plate with French fries, cheese sauce, and mac & cheese.
I, on the other hand, almost never eat vegetables at Mediocre Buffet. I don’t eat any meat that has not been deep-fried. I can honestly say I’ve never had a single piece of fruit there, ever. My plate is always loaded with nachos, fried shrimp, country fried steak, and anything else that will punch my arteries in the face. To top it all off, I occasionally wash down this culinary nightmare with chocolate milk. I keep waiting for one of the kids to finally look me square in the eye and ask me where exactly I get off ordering them around at the buffet when I don’t even practice what I preach.
I live in fear of this day, my friends. Well, maybe not fear. I reserve fear for things like cancer and death and the Joey Buttafuoco sex tape. Concern is probably a better word. I live in concern that my kids will figure out I’m full of, um, poo.
It’s not just the buffet I’m talking about. I hold my kids to higher standards than I hold myself on all kinds of things. I require them to make their beds every morning. Colette and I make ours maybe twice a week. We tell the kids to keep their elbows off the table during dinner. I keep finding myself leaning over my food, elbows firmly planted on the table, like I’m afraid my meal is going to escape. I limit the amount of time the kids get to use the computer while I carry my laptop around as if it were attached to me with an umbilical cord.
If the kids figure me out – or I suppose I should say when they figure me out – I might have a problem on my hands. I don’t want to start eating vegetables and making my bed. What kind of a life would that be? If you’re going to make me do that stuff, you might as well just put a diaper on me and chain me to the radiator. Sheesh. Besides, I did all that stuff already. I did it for years. My parents made me do it. I spent half my youth eating foods that taste like punishment. That’s why I don’t have to do it now. I did my time. I paid my debt to society.
And you know what? I don’t care if the kids think my rules are unfair. I pay the mortgage. I pay the electric bill. I work 50 hours a week. I get to say what is and isn’t fair. Of course, you try explaining that to an 11-year-old when she realizes you’re on your third plate of nachos. Kids don’t understand that stuff. They’re like dogs without tails.
Then again, maybe if the kids are smart enough to figure me out, they’ll be smart enough to understand why they have to do stuff that I don’t. Of course, they also might be smart enough to ask what kinds of things I did on Saturday nights when I was in high school, and why they can’t do those things once they get to high school in a few years.
You know, this is all sort of starting to make my head hurt. I’m going to go lie down now.
Bob Rybarczyk
20 May 2008
http://www.stltoday.com/stltoday/lifestyle/columnists.nsf/suburbanfringe/story/55F6B6CD0A327A468625744E006FB673?OpenDocument
