Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 217
Give dads longer contracts for Father’s Day
I
’ve never really considered myself all that much
of a “texter.” So, imagine
my surprise when last month’s
cellphone bill showed I had
exceeded my 1,000 text limit … and was surcharged accordingly.
Really? More than 1,000
texts in a month?! Who does
that?
I mean, in my mind, only
a slobbering, tech-crazed adolescent could rack up those
texting numbers. And he or
she should, accordingly, be
chastised within an inch of
his or her life for this heinous
transgression.
Something is rotten in Denmark, and I demand a recount.
But, assuming I did do the
dirty deed more than 1,000
times, it gives me pause for
thought.
And I think I’m going to
blame it on my kids.
As far as you know, anyway,
the majority of those texts
were sent to, or received from,
my distant daughters, on my
own time … and not used to
carry out romantic banter with
lovely women during work
hours … I disclaim. (However, in either case, this column
Jim
WALKER
DON’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY
makes those texts tax-deductible. Can you say “research expenditure?”)
Now, thinking of all those
texts as a form of punchedin parenting causes my restless mind to wander both philosophically and nostalgically,
especially since Father’s Day
is just around the corner.
So, here we go.
As you know, my fellow fathers, kids can eat up your allotments — on so many levels.
Phonewise, they can certainly take up your texts and pilfer
your peak minutes. For example, what could be said by you
or to you in a 30-second call
will, instead, require a series
of 10 back-and-forth textings
over the span of an hour — because your offspring are afraid
that speaking to you directly
would slow down their day.
And while you frugally
might call them after 9 p.m.
or on a Sunday, you will only
be able to leave a message because they have no working
concept of time or day of the
week. And, of course, the response to your message will
come during your Monday
midday meeting — if it comes
at all.
Now, aside from phone felonies, your kids can also fritter your funds, punish your
patience, hammer your heart
and, generally, drive you toward dementia as the only attractive option for a peaceful
existence.
The Mayberry-esque parent-child relationships that you
foolishly envisioned when you
let your wife talk you into creating these extraneous lifeforms have never even come
close to realization. On the
contrary, your ill-advised dalliances begot beings that yank
years off you like fishing line
streaking from a reel when
“the big one” dives for the
deep.
So, it’s no wonder us dads
need more liberal allowances
in all of our plans.
Yes, some of us, apparently,
need unlimited texting. That
might be a minimum gift for
us for Father’s Day. But what
all dads truly yearn for in their
heart of hearts is to receive
more generous terms in their
cosmic contracts.
Yes, we definitely need a rebate of some youthful years,
but beyond that … wait for it
… we want more time … With
our kids.
Say what?!
It’s true. Even taking into
account all I have herein alluded to, all the things that
might otherwise tip the fatherhood scales hard to the
down side, there is some genetic defect in each of us dads
that ignores all that and just
wants more.
We want more of those moments of sweet baby smell,
more afternoons being used as
human monkey bars, more stories to read to them at night,
more days when we teach them
to ride a bike or tie a knot. We
want to experience again the
day they caught their first fish
or first f ly ball.
We want to soar with them
again on the day they scored
the winning goal — or comfort them on the day they
missed that same shot in the
championship.
We want to snuggle again
with them on the couch while
sharing popcorn and a silly
movie. We want to see them
graduate again and again and
we want to gently paste together their broken hearts like
Zuzu’s petals.
We need to hear them blabber, complain, rave or even
tell us how out of touch we are
— anything, just to hear them
talk to us again. We want to
run with them, tickle them and
toss them in the pool. And we
want to dose them again with
pink antibiotic syrup because
it makes us feel we have the
power to protect them from
the world.
We want them back safe in
the house with us at the end of
the night.
We want “more.”
Now I suppose, someday
far too soon, I will get to relive many of these things with
grandchildren. But until then,
at least, I miss those days.
Happy Father’s Day, fellas.
Enjoy those kids while you
can.
Comment at jwalker@thesignal.com or at http://Twitter.
com/DontSeriously.
