Greg and David just celebrated their 20th birthday yesterday. We started Saturday night at Cheesecake Factory, and then back home for cake. Every year, more candles (thank you, Captain Obvious), and with twins, 20 makes 40 (thank you, Captain Arithmetic).
Sunday, the official day, the boys wake up and we exchange hugs and happy birthdays. Then we recall the morning of their 18th birthday. Memorable for two reasons…
The first thing we remember is that I wake up before everyone else, and go to the gym. After working out, I get in my Ford Explorer. There is a BMW rich man’s car parked next to me. It is half parked next to my spot and half in the spot behind him. So, when I pull out and turn right, I cut it too close and clip his front bumper!
Not a scratch on the Explorer, of course, but there is a small dent in the front panel of the Beemer. I leave a note on his car.
“People are watching me write this and they think I am leaving you my personal information. But, actually I am writing to say that’s what you get for taking up two spots for your fancy car.”
Only kidding. I tell the owner to go visit the front desk.
So, it’s back to the gym, giving the guy at the front desk all my information. There is actually a prewritten form for just this situation. What did I learn? Two things.
- My driving skills are suspect when I can get in an accident from a dead stop in a parking lot.
- When you are driving an 80/ 90K car, your front bumper getting dinged costs more than 10K to fix. I know, because I saw our insurance premiums go up after that. Now it’s been two years, so I think we are back to normal.
The second memorable thing for the boys about their 18th birthday, is when I greeted Greg with a punch in the sternum. He looks at me with his “what the heck” stare. I say one word.
“Misdemeanor.”
As in, “You have just turned 18 and now if I hit you it will no longer be felony child abuse, but only a misdemeanor.”
We laugh about this, but I really don’t hit my kids. Really. Do not take this as evidence that I strike the boys. Actually, they used to hit me once in a while. Parental abuse. But, it was only in the arm because they are playing that stupid “Slug Bug” game. You know where you punch someone in the arm when you see a Volkswagen Beetle. “Slug Bug yellow!”
We don’t play this anymore because when I stopped participating, I was getting hit all the time. That’s a perfect game for sons to play with their father. They get to hit you, knowing you won’t hit them back. I guess it’s a good substitute for patricide, but I don’t want any part of it. It’s time to stop.
Instead of hitting them myself to make them stop, I give them my “mean dad” Bruce Willis-scowl. This proves sufficient. No more “Slug Bug” as far as I am concerned. But, there might come a day when I resurrect the game, if only once. I’ll scream, “Slug Bug blue!” and haul off and coldcock one of them.
That’ll teach ‘em…
(Now, really, you know I am not going to do this, right? I don't hit the boys nor advocate this kind of violent behavior.)
