Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 159
Walker
Continued from A1
Did you ever wonder why
the most legendary giver was
called “Father” Christmas?
Um-hm.
Of course I have heard of
a father or two who didn’t
richly give to his children
in the financial sense. And
there have been some fathers down the line who
didn’t give to their children
in the emotional and spiritual sense.
But I have it on the best
authority that the former gave what they could
(ahem), and the latter—well,
they don’t deserve recognition, so we remove them
from the discussion.
I’m talking to the majority of you fathers out there,
the ones who are, for all intents and purposes, emotional organ donors.
You see, being a true father is kind of like donating
a kidney, repeatedly.
You give the most precious thing you have to your
children — and then must
watch stoically while it
walks away and Mom earns
the interest on your investment.
Oh sure, moms have the
whole “They-were-rippedfrom-my-body” thing going. And most mothers are,
indeed, wellsprings of nurture, support and solace for
their children. But they pretty much have the rest of the
world painting their toenails
in reward for this, as well as
the benefit of their many secret mother societies, which
are dedicated to patting each
other on the back, I hear.
We, my brothers? What do
we get?
A hand-me-down holiday.
Maybe, on the day, you’ll
receive burnt toast in bed
when the kids are young —
and when they are grown,
if you are lucky, you’ll get
a call from across the country that, very soon, turns to,
“So, is Mom there?” or “My
brakes are making a funny
noise.”
Yet, we suffer in silence,
chums, because that is our
script. We aren’t allowed
to pull up our shirts and
show the scars from where
they cut out chunks of us to
sculpt into handsome figures of ingratitude and willfulness.
And when the kids call
and get Mom crying, we
must convince her everything will be all right — and
then go pound nails really
hard in the garage.
Though we didn’t share
an umbilical cord with our
little projects, we are no less
connected to them than their
mothers are. We are forever fated to adjusting for
their miscalculations, steering them firmly away from
half-baked ideas and halfbaked people, co-signing for
them on important deals and
vouching for them in court.
Our self-defense mechanism is to do it all while acting as if it is a hardship, and
that we’re only doing it to
keep the wife off the back.
(And now, a secret confession to the kids) The truth of
the matter is, we really, really care, you perverse little
bloodsuckers.
Whatever hurts you,
hurts us. Your successes are
our successes, and you are
our best hope for redemp-
tion. Though there are times
when we’d like to help you
out of this world, we need
you in it or there is no point
to the whole exercise.
So, have another kidney.
I, for one, have plenty to
spare.
I’ll even learn to like the
taste of burnt toast, if you
make it for me.
This, even though I know
you are only going through
the motions for a hand-medown holiday.
So, happy Father’s Day,
boys!
This week, in particular,
do not take Walker seriously
—you know, except the good
parts. This is just for fun.
Mothers, please, no abuse.
However, any of you fathers
out there who want to whine
along the above lines, comment
at jwalker@the-signal.com or
on Twitter @DontSeriously.
