So I get an email from my mom yesterday. She wants to know why I haven’t written anything in a while. I’m afraid to tell her that I’ve been extremely busy with school, because she’ll just say that I’m making excuses and then proceed to ground me from TV. Mom, I’m thirty-six. You can’t ground me anymore. And no, you can’t have my wife ground me either. At least I hope you can’t.
Later on in the day I get an email from a new reader. “Holy procrastination Batman! Writer’s block? Why nothing since October?” Yes, I’ve been busy. Who are you, my mother? A few minutes later another email from the same reader. “Oh I see…you were in mourning of the Rangers’ loss.”
Like any infomercial I’ve ever been suckered into purchasing stuff I really don’t need from, this is where I say wait, that’s not all.
I wake up this morning to a late-night Facebook post on my wall from a friend noting “October 27th?!?!?!?!?!? Come On! Quit your tweeting and get those creative juices flowing. Been waiting forever on a new blog from you!”
Now I know what it feels like to be in Nicholas Sparks’ shoes. Being awesome is not easy.
But you know who makes being awesome look easy though? My kids. Seriously. Those turds never cease to amaze me.
Take Sunday, for instance. New Year’s Day, actually. Because the first day of 2012 had decided to disguise itself like any other day throughout the year and not host the Rose Bowl Parade or bowl games, Kacie and Brady and I decided to get out of the house. An unscheduled shopping expedition to Target.
Anyone who has kids knows that you can’t take them shopping without telling them over and over and over again to stop touching every frigging thing on the shelves.
Brady and I are on a mission: Batting tee. Light bulbs. Mechanical pencils.
Kacie has a few things of her own to shop for, not so much out of necessity but because some of the money she’d received over the holidays was burning a hole in her pocket. I get it. What’s money good for if you can’t spend it on useless crap, or in my case when I was her age, pack after pack and box after box of baseball cards that will one day make you rich. The top item on her list? An iPod docking station that could also function as an alarm clock, which is no Ken Griffey, Jr. rookie card if you ask me.
We’re a divide and conquer type of family, so we do just that. Brady and I make our way to the sporting good section while Kacie disappears into the jungle of goods just waiting to be purchased, taken home, used once, and never thought of again.
Things are going according to plan, too according to plan, actually. Kacie’s already back with her must have item. Brady hasn’t touched a single thing that he wasn’t supposed to, which I find to be a bit suspicious. Perhaps he’s turned over a new leaf for the new year. Maybe he’s suffering a hangover from the prior evening’s festivities of college football and an over indulgence of shows on PBS Kids.
And then he seems them: the Valentine’s display of singing stuffed animals. He hits the brakes. Holds the phone. Stops the presses. Backs the truck up. Like a fish drawn to a shiny spinning metal object in a lake that looks nothing like a fish but is supposed to look appetizing, he’s hooked. It’s goodnight, Gracie. Any chance of us getting out of Target without distraction has left the building, without us.
“Brady, seriously, dude. You don’t have to touch every single one of them.”
“But Daddy.” He’s already squeezed the paw on a fourth stuffed animal, triggering another quirky song and dance routine from the toy. Our first shopping trip of the New Year is proving that restraint was not on my son’s list of resolutions.
“No buts.”
“But Daddy.”
“But Brady.”
“But Daddy.”
“But Brady.”
He laughs. This back and forth “Who’s on First” routine of ours is a funny game to him. And now at least ten animals are performing different acts. People are staring. They’re also laughing – probably because they are smarter than I am and left their kids at home.
“But Daddy. Watch this.” He ignites a brown puppy dog – a puppy dog that likes big butts. It must have had a really good upbringing too because it cannot lie either. If only Pinocchio’s daddy could have taken him to Target and bought this singing/dancing dog for him. Perhaps things would have been different for the poor dummy.
“Fine. You stay here and get whatever this is out of your system. I need to find my mechanical pencils.” I leave my little Baryshnikov dancing with his new playmates at the aisle’s endcap and rummage through the anemic selection of lead writing instruments, breaking focus from my search every few seconds to make sure he hasn’t been shoplifted or wandered away to the next thing that caught his eye.
After several minutes of this, I feel a tug on my jeans pocket.
“Daddy. You have to see this. This dog is sooooooooooo awesome!”
“Kid, I’ve heard it. And seen it. And I’m not so sure that the song is entirely appropriate for you to be dancing to.”
“But Daddy.”
“But Brady.”
“But Daddy. Just. Watch,” he says, using hand gestures to over-emphasize the serious of his last two words. He sets the dog down on the shelf in front of us and proceeds to bust a move.
Dollar signs flood my mind. If he can just learn to also sing and play basketball he’ll have broken down the walls of generations of stereotypes the men in my family have helped live up to and forge a new path of fortune and fame for moi. And to think, I didn’t even have to buy him a voucher for future breast implants like some parents! Best. Father. Ever.
My self-indulgent trance is quickly broken as I hear Kacie giggling from behind me. She covers her mouth, as if my seeing her laughing at her little brother’s antics will cause me to disregard her wanting teenage desire for the world to know that she thinks he’s a pest. Yes, Beezus. We know how you want us to think you feel about Ramona.
Shoppers again stop and watch, this time in droves. Okay, not droves. Handfuls may be more accurate. Nevertheless, they’re laughing, not because I am an idiot and willing brought my children to the store with me, but because they too see how lucky I am, which leads me to this revelation: Best. Father Baby maker. Ever.
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