I never really had to do it that often. I will admit that I am becoming increasingly alarmed at the frequency of which I am having to perform it though. It’s gotten to the point where it feels a lot like conditioning-through-repetition. Developing that ability to think three minutes ahead of a conversation in order to foresee and prepare for that disastrous and inevitable result.
Sometimes, when my kids start to speak, my inner censor immediately starts to pucker up simply out of conditioned reflex. Their occasional, unconscious spewing of whatever erupts from the tops of their pretty little heads. In short, speaking as if they were born without a social filter.
Of course, both the guilty party and I know that they are merely trying to be outgoing, witty, or funny. However, not all spectators to these conversations immediately gravitate towards this simple fact. This often leads to colorful, almost pleading alibis in our defense as parents. Stammering explanations aimed to either defuse, counter-balance, or merely keep social services from breaking down our front door.
Take, for example, our recent camping trip…
Sitting around the campground’s fire pit one evening, the adults enjoyed some relaxation while the kids ran around spreading their own backwoods brand of rustic hooliganism. With the decibel levels of a small military offensive encompassing our campsite, no one was particularly worried about any wilderness predators that evening. Likely, they had all scattered to find the quieter comforts of a local jet way or mine blasting operation.
As is routine on these types of camping trips, the adults were partaking in some fermented beverages while enjoying the warmth of a nice campfire. Concoctions poured into those notorious, red Solo cups and stuffed conveniently into the drink holders of our folding chairs. Those same cups, coupled with ping-pong balls, made infamous by nearly every college party over the last 25 years.
As I walked over to change stations on my nearby satellite radio, our galloping two year old staggered back towards the circle of adults. Tired and thirsty, she reached for the first drink that she saw. My red cup filled with a particularly high octane brand of ale.
Once I realized what she was drinking from, I immediately reached down to swipe the cup from her grasp. Like clockwork, whenever she gets caught doing something that she knows she is not supposed to do, she immediately released her clutch and turned to run. Unfortunately for her, in her scampering attempts of liberation back into the dark confines of our campsite, she tripped over one of the tent strings and went spread eagle into the dirt. Not once, but twice.
She was fine. In fact, it was one of the few times that one of our gravity-challenged children did not actually require professional medical attention. However, it’s what took place a couple days later that brought on said pucker factor. Coming home from school, our son informed us that when his teacher asked about his weekend, he proudly stated that he went camping…and that his two year old sister drank beer and was falling all over the place afterwards.
Best that I can remember, I believe that I commenced a very audible facepalm followed by what may have been some offensive mumblings in inaudible, ancient tongues. A call was promptly placed to his teacher before social services was able to mobilize a SEAL Team Six extraction mission for our beer-swilling children. A lengthy lecture followed thereafter.
Thankfully though, we actually do get lucky on occasion. Those times when, under intense cross-examination, we are able to help stave off a particular diatribe before he is able to go public with it.
While watching the pre-election news one evening, our son spoke up and said that the kids in his class were saying that Mitt Romney was trying to take all of women’s rights away. Not looking to get into the specifics of Roe vs. Wade discussion with my fourth grader, I simply took the middle ground in order to highlight that he has a mind of his own and the capacities to distinguish fact from schoolyard hearsay.
“Some people will say that about Romney and some people will say that Obama is taking money from people and giving it to his friends. That’s what people do. They just want you to think like they do. You can’t believe everything that you hear or the wild stories that people tell you. You have to find out the facts for yourself and weigh them against your own beliefs. That’s how you are supposed to vote. Not because someone said ‘this’ or ‘that’ about the other guy. But because of the facts that you know are true and what you believe is best for your country.”
He nodded and seemed to get it. We always try to instill in him that he had a mind of his own and had the right to his own opinion. I was actually kind of proud of myself for giving him the opportunity to think of himself in that manner. The next morning, however, he informed my wife over breakfast that I said “Obama was a thief”.
And just like the feats of “Fearless” Felix Baumgartner, my self-congratulatory pat-on-the-back screamed back to Earth from the stratosphere. Houston, we have a comprehension problem.
“That whole lecture last night and that’s all you got from it? Did you go to the Secret Service with that one already, Jabber Jaws?”
That life-long look of confusion again. I guess references to 30 year old cartoon characters don’t do much to help him navigate through that perennial social fog either.
Although lucky at times, there are also those instances when I am not quick enough to preempt the inevitable. Again, in conditioning-through-repetition, you can see it coming. However, you find that you’re just not fast enough to stop that speeding freight train before it sails over the cliff.
One evening, while my wife was out, the kids were carrying out their usual acts of stampeding through the house while I was cleaning up in the kitchen. As expected in these types of scenarios, there was a very loud thump from the other room followed by an ear-piercing scream. Arriving onto the scene, I found our youngest in a crumpled pile on the floor with my older two standing over her with their arms in the air.
“I didn’t touch her!”
The best that I could piece together, using the three to four different stories that I received from each of my temporarily-exonerated darlings, was that our youngest had decided to Kerri Strug herself off of the couch. Always on my watch…
No doubt a truly historic Olympic vault in her own right, she had managed only to twist her ankle this time. It seemed genuinely sore, but lucky for her (and me), it was not broken. As I consoled her, the phone rang. I instructed my son to answer it, and then bring it to me.
“Dad, it’s mommy on the phone.”
My eyes widened as I foresaw that freight train barreling towards the cliff. However, before I was able to reinforce the male protocols of household secrecy and enact the “Vegas Mandate”, he immediately turned back to the phone. As the train launched over the cliff, our resident pioneer physician then provided my wife with his expert diagnosis on our wounded gymnast. “She broke her leg.”
Springing across the room with spider-like reflexes, I’m not entirely sure which hurt worse at that point. My daughter’s twisted ankle or my son’s hand, from me smacking the phone out of it. I was quick…but unfortunately not Spidey-sense quick.
All-in-all, it hasn’t been a complete loss though. At least my unconscious pucker factor has adequately developed through conditioned reflex. I can now predict traffic accidents seconds in advance through these developed nervous tics. For my children though, the only developments that they appear to have made to this point are the social filters on their ears instead of their mouths.
At some point, perhaps I will have mastered that ability to think three minutes ahead. Shortly before Social Services kicks down the front door.
