Like a fly on a horse’s ass, this kid is buggin’ me. “Quit it!”, I shoo him. I’m mid-sentence into resuscitating this blog. Little Richard couldn’t Tutti Fruiti his fingers across these home row keys any faster than I am right now. And that’s the “Wop Bop A Loo Bop A Wop Bam-Truth”. “Will! You! Stop! Geezus!”, I shout. The kid doesn’t understand. I’m trying to make my halfwitted sentences, misplaced commas, and my typos fit together like the pieces of a forever changing puzzle. And his, “Dad! Are you writing about me and Quinn!?” questioning isn’t helping. It’s distracting! “Dad. Dad. Can I read it?”. He’s wrestling around my shoulders trying to catch a peek at the screen. He’s relentless.
Enter The Last Chapter: Dutiful Nightlight
This is it. The infinite ending of this mythical How-To-Parent book. Within these endless chapters, we’ve preached truths from our lips, and shot principles from our hips. All in the name of parental tips and quips. And now, our full grown kids are socially equipped…to Google their asses off. We’ve bought them braces and glasses. Units for classes. Now, they’re blasting off. Into the outer orbits of obnoxiousness; Deep Space Know-it-alls. With their tech addled wherewithals…these kids…are far out, man! Too cool for the HQ. As far as they’re concerned, our parental training has ceased. And all there’s left for us to do, as parents, is give them their unadulterated privacy. But that doesn’t mean we have to blow out the lighthouse lantern. Let’s leave it burning; high and bright. Because as long as we’re alive…this little light of ours…will forever be home.
I know all his sneaks attacks that start from behind my shoulders. From his wet willies to his rear naked choke holds. But it was his chemical warfare that caught me by surprise. He hit me with the In-N-Out double burger burp to my face. “FREAKIN’ PIG! KINGSTON!”, and so the chase began.
The kid is nasty. But I love that at ten years old he thinks his tactics could faze me. “Quinn! Read it! Read it!”, he calls as he youthfully jetts down the stairs. I trail behind carefully, with socks on. Kingston darts left. Around the coffee table like a gazelle in a hurdle race. I go crashing into it. “OW! SHIT!”, my pinky toe!
It was then…bent over on the ground like an old Arby’s curly fry…that I realized I had been duped. I fell right into their trap. “Like a fly on a horse’s ass, this kid is buggin’ me…”, Quinn’s sweet and traitorous voice read out loud. It echoed down the hallway and sent jitters into my skeleton’s closet. No one but a katydid has ever read my rough draft. “Oh my god! Dada!”, Quinn said in shock. “Are you talking about me or Quinn!?”, Kingston asks. I could hear their future embarrassment. Grade school, middle school, high schoolers teasing them for the stories told in this very blog. Eventually, I’d have to be accountable for their ridicule, and teach them about the therapeutic properties of a good martini. But before any of that happens, I’m ending my experiment and closing these blank pages to this mythical How-To-Parent book. Thank you all for following my journey through this puzzling piece of literature regarding good guardianship. Goodbye for now.