COLUMN: What’d I Say
I know I’m not the best parent in the world. I’d like to think I am, but if you examine my 3-year-old daughter, Emma, closely, you will find she is a polished, beautiful, mirror-image of her mother and a dull carbon copy of her father. My wife has taught her to be polite, to sing, smile, hug, kiss and love unconditionally. I’ve taught her to say punk, duke, fart, cakehole, back-off my six and some unknown word she pronounces “hay-hole.” Yes, that’s me – Master of Vocabulary.
I have been occasionally useful. Under my discipleship she’s learned to sing the chorus to Seals and Crofts’ pot-smoking hit “Summer Breeze,” to love Star Wars, Batman, Superman and the Jazz (she’s Malone, and in her words I’m, “Scockton”). Conversely, my wife has taught Emma to wash her hands after she goes potty (something I never do), to say “excuse me” after she burps or toots (side note: toot is strictly a female emission; no man I know has ever “tooted”) and to generally know good from evil.
You may be praying for Emma’s future right now, given her penchant for saying “cakehole” (Grandma: “Emma, come give me a big hug.” Emma: “Ah, Grandma, you cakehole.”), but I’d argue that my daughter leads a balanced, happy and, if anything else, entertaining life. Whenever her tiny sphere of existence turns chaotic – when she can’t find Elmo or her lightsaber in the toy box, or can’t reach the fat-free rice cakes on the counter – she reaches for her mother. Same with me. My wife is our anchor, and Emma and I constantly vie for her attention, oftentimes making me a sibling rather than a parent. However, despite my fatherly inadequacies and my penchant for still acting like a child, I’m certain Emma knows without a doubt that I love her immeasurably and would lift mountains for her success and safety.
Because of those feelings, I cannot imagine ever hurting Emma physically or mentally. In fact, I can’t imagine anyone who holds the sacred mantle of parent, hurting their own flesh and blood. But there are numerous fathers and mothers who treat their children like worthless, mindless annoyances. These despicable parents lay siege to their children’s hearts and minds, crushing their bright, endless futures with cutting remarks and thoughtless violence administered by cold, unfeeling hands. Normally, when all is said and done, an impassable gorge exists wherein a river of youthful hope once ran true and fast. The light is gone.
This may sound morbid, heaven knows the previous paragraph was gloomy enough, but I can stomach violence against an adult more than I can against a child. It goes back to the phrase “innocent women and children.” Men aren’t innocent – we are filthy, smelly, anti-tooting pigs, and everybody can deal with our death. But not women and children. Especially children. We can’t deal with that.
I’ve heard parents would give their lives for their children, and now, after being a father for three years, I know that statement is true. And that is why I have no sympathy for anyone who harms a child in any way. That includes Andrea Yates – postpartum depression, or not, Susan Smith and a host of other folks who don’t have enough love, compassion and self-control to do otherwise.
Maybe we should start checking potential parents’ kid IQ. If it’s too low, then sorry, you’ll have to wait six months, be re-tested and if it improves, only then can you obtain a child license. Makes sense doesn’t it? Maybe some of these imbecilic special interest groups like PETA and Greenpeace could rethink their missions and start fighting for children, instead of wasting time and money on trees and seals.
Perhaps, the 1989 movie Parenthood, states it best. Tod (Keanu Reeves) says to Helen Buckman (Dianne Wiest) – his future mother-in-law, “You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car – hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any butt-reaming [hay-hole] be a father.”
Amen. Now, may I see your child license, please?