I spent a fair amount of Quality Time with the kids this weekend, with Mother’s Day and soccer winding down, which means, of course, that I caught a ton of shit.
Karma dictated that the day would come. The day when the kids would be old enough for the primary point of conversation to become giving dad a hard time regarding his various frailties and failings. And that day has come.
On the trip to watch our local semi-pro soccer team, the Austin Aztex, play (I’m shooting a Quality Time episode tomorrow, dedicated to Ben, about the charms of watching professional soccer), the barrage was pretty much non-stop. What bemuses me is that the things that my beloved children really hone in on are things that I would expect that the family would support. I understand they need to poke fun; I even enjoy the give and take. What I don’t understand is how they have chosen the subject matter for their ribbing.
In short, my handsome workout apparel and my somewhat enthusiastic approach to car maintenance have been targeted.
Have you ever seen one of those spinning sprinklers? This is what I look like when I exercise. Basically, my big bald dome becomes a fountain worthy of a Vegas casino whenever I take more than three jogging steps. To address this situation, I very sensibly wear absorbent headbands. And because of the quantity were talking about here, I find the extra-wide terri-cloth headbands work best. It pretty much looks like a skull cap with the top cut off.
Why my kids find this worthy of ridicule, I have no idea.
And *of course* I pull my knee socks up! If they bunch around the ankles, it could cause circulation problems. Please. What they find so funny about my practical approach, I have no idea.
And as far as the cars are concerned, there is no end to the grief that gets rained down on me on this topic. Do I get mad when *they* forget to spread the plastic sheeting out before sitting down? No. I patiently spread it out for them, then vacuum the storage area in the trunk where the sheeting is kept in case any dirt came off of it while it was being stored. My wife joins in the attack, wondering aloud why I don’t pay as much attention to the carpet in the house. The obvious answer: I didn’t make monthly payments for five years on the carpet in the house!
Sure, I understand that there are days when the kids wish that they could put their feet down when we’re out running errands, but they also must appreciate getting into a minivan with freshly rotated tires. They act like they don’t, but I can see right through that ruse! Besides, keeping the feet up is good for the abs.
I’m curious, do your kids latch onto and mock your very sensible behaviors? Please share.
