Are You Out of Your Vulcan Mind?

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?"

I try not to paint that false picture of my wife and I as the perfect parents of perfect children.  I would like to think that most people, including fellow parents, would see right through that awful façade anyway.  You always stumble around those posts on social media of people bragging about their perfect lives and their perfectly behaved children.  Honestly folks.  Who are you kidding?  I have three of them myself.  I would say that most times, they are unreasonable, narcissistic mutants.  Rag-tag outlanders from a distant galaxy…where no appearance of reason, comprehension, or logic exists.  The anti-Spocks, if you may.

You know those posts.  Be it perfect grades on their report cards with little to no effort, their unwavering love and nurturing demeanor with their darling siblings, or the fact that they were knighted with the Lifetime Humanitarian Award for single-handedly rescuing a dozen puppies from the inner circles of Hell.  We got it.  You’re proud of your kids.  Hey, I’ve been guilty of the same at times myself.  This blog typically offers itself as a sounding board (or antithesis) of sanity for both my wife and I in many of those respects.

Let me make clear that I’m not saying it’s wrong for you to praise your kids.  That’s our job as responsible parents and your children should know that their Lifetime Humanitarian Award is something to be broadcast loud-and-proud.  It builds their confidence and life skills.  Even those grateful puppies would agree.    In other words, be proud of them and let them know it.  However, if you are just looking to seek out societal acceptance of your flawless parenting and child-rearing skills on social media, we’re on to you.  So, kids?  Hooray!  Fishing for public acclamations of your impeccable parenting on Facebook?  Well, a blight on you.

"Mother of All Creatures!"

For me personally, there are times that my children do things that leave me in absolute awe and almost make me believe that I’m not screwing this whole parenting thing up as badly as I think.  Then again, maybe it’s simply over-compensation on my part for those other stretches of time where my kids become completely unhinged sociopaths in a public setting.  Those times that better resemble the chaos of the Titanic evacuation rather than socially-acceptable behavior in a family environment.  Most days, you’re forced to leave it to the roll of the dice as to what side of the spectrum that you are going to get.

It gets me thinking though.  For every potential social media post that I want to make about my children doing some amazing and selfless deed, I find myself questioning another potential post about some of their truly embarrassing achievements around the house that may prompt inquiries from Child Protective Services.  Possibly Homeland Security.  Let’s be honest.  Life isn’t a sitcom and no one is by any means perfect.  At no time does this typically become clearer to me than when my wife is out of the house for an extended period of time.  When Dad is on-watch.

It starts out as that confidence-inspiring Dad moment.  They are all laughing and having a good time.  You know…the sun is out, the birds are singing, and you hear the Heavenly melodic hymns of nearby cherubs singing in serene lucidity.  Life is good, brother.  You got this.  Eventually though, the rowdiness inevitably begins.  And why not?  Mom’s not around.  Toys being thrown around the room to a barking dog, unabated sprinting from room-to-room with said dog in hot pursuit, and then body-slamming themselves full-speed into our couch.  This is typically the point where mom would put a squash on those types of festivities.  Dad though?  Hey, what could go wrong?

Bang, crash, thump.  All parents know that last sound.  That dull thump of a small human body hitting the floor with decent velocity.  That’s when you wait for that inevitable, post-disaster reaction.  Think proverbial calm before the raging storm.  Simon & Garfunkel’s “Sounds of Silence” morphing into Rage Against the Machine’s “Wake Up”.

"I'll have the squab, kind sir."

Yes, the sun has retreated, the birds are viciously attacking Tippi Hedren, and those doe-eyed cherubs are growling Motorhead lyrics.  From the other room comes the blood-curdling fusion of screaming, crying, and yelling.  Who didn’t see this coming?  Apparently myself and my inner-statistician.  Mind you, the same idiot that took Statistics three separate times in college…for a grand total of 21 days.  Three times.  Marinate on the stupidity of that for a statistical second or two.  Vegas was never my friend.

So, triaging the scene, I quickly scan the room.  No blood or severely mangled bodies on the carpet.  OK.  Check one.  The tears thankfully appear to be of sheer panic from a broken lamp rather than of blunt-force trauma or impalement.  Check two.  All kids currently under my direct supervision are accounted for and moving freely under their own power.  Check three.  Anxiety levels can now be lowered to DEFCON 4.

“Awesome.  So, what happened?”

The story goes, or at least the one that was quickly concocted and fed to me piecemeal by my oldest daughter, was that my youngest was standing on the couch and fell off onto the floor lamp next to it.  Which then obviously broke. 

 “Wow.  Intelligent.  And how did that happen?”

Now, the story begins to grow more elaborate.  Youngest standing on the couch, middle child standing behind the couch, and my oldest on the other side of the room throwing dog toys at them.  This, mind you, all for fun.  Folks, welcome to winter in the sticks.  My mind quickly began to wander back to the days of their infancies.  No, I can’t recall ever feeding any of them paint chips with regularity.

However, this prompts me to ask a more serious question though.  What in the hell happened to non-contact games like “The Floor is Lava” when we were kids anyway?  Unless you coupled it with some WWF Super-Fly Snooka antics, maiming and physical disfigurement were rarely an issue that I can recall.  Then again, there was that time when my little brother split the back of his head open on the pull-out couch frame while I was babysitting.  Never mind.  Scratch that sentiment.  Moving on.

"We are being detoured into the land of make-believe."

Now, sensing blood in the water, and thankfully not on my carpet, I break character for an instant and channel my inner-Horatio Caine.  “The verdict is in, Frank…but the jury is still out.”  Careening my head in the direction of the Wi-Fi router, “Alexa, play ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ by The Who.”

Under my intense, CSI-inspired questioning, she suddenly breaks.  Sort of.  “Well, I accidentally pushed her and she lost her balance and accidentally fell into the lamp.  Then, I fell on top of her and my teeth accidentally hit her arm.”

<Blink> <Blink>

I can only wish that I could make an admission of enlightenment like this up.  This was the dead-serious explanation that I received from one of my darling brood.  My own, apparently genetically-mutated, flesh and blood.  I have to admit, that certainly was a high number of accidents to have occurred in such a short period of time.  I hope this one never decides to go to work in a volatile biological research facility.   The End Days would most certainly be upon us.  Mayhem is coming.  Are you in good hands?

So, my dilemma.  Post that story about them volunteering, serving, and doing amazing things for the less-fortunate in our community or about a real-life saga of physical bedlam (and demolition of floor-based lighting apparatuses) on Dad’s watch?  Hey, at this point, none of my progenies has been seriously maimed while I was on-duty.  Personally, I believe that is something to truly brag about on social media.

Statistically though, what’s the over / under line on that last statement?  Asking for a friend.