Last week was my son’s 12th birthday. We managed to put off planning the culturally mandated celebration until just before the event, despite receiving his weekly “reminder” notes and “Save the date” emails. When it became unavoidable we sat down to calmly discuss what kind of party, which friends, etc. His beloved Xbox controller out of his hands and eyes firmly focused on us he laid out the fiesta he had promised his twenty closest buds. A Three day weekend double-night sleepover Extravaganza complete with shark swimming at the city aquarium, dining on mussels at a French bistro, an NHL hockey game, epic Nerf gun battles, cake, Skittles candy and a round the clock free-flowing punchbowl fountain of Mountain Dew! An epic party for the ages that would wow friends into fanatic devotion and shame rivals into submission.
We immediately drained my wife’s retirement account, started the paperwork for the 2nd mortgage and called Paris Hilton for the name of her event planner. Either that or dumbstruck we muttered “One event – the hockey game, one night sleepover cap at eight friends.” He jumped high and ran into his room, pausing only long enough to grab his cell phone and a snack, whoops and giggles cascading from behind the closed door. That’s when it hit me…We’d been played. Played and beaten.
On the night of the party my wife and I did “rock, paper, scissors” to see who took the boys to the boys to the game (more accurately, I put out my hand and she hit it with a rock then held the blade of a scissors desperately against my neck) I lost fair and square. My only concession being she would drop us off so I would only be responsible for the safety of the boys amongst twenty thousand rabid hockey fans and not the dangers of a dark parking lot.
I had forgotten the fact that all interaction between middle school boys consists entirely of either lies, or alternatively, whopper lies. Whoppers being identified by their preposterousness and the veracity with which they are defended. Actual example: I did not invent the air-cooled engine (or at least I do not recall the feat nor do I have a bank account that reflects such an achievement). Yet my son told his pals I did, and if they could find an old Volkswagen outside I would demonstrate how the engine works by jump starting it from the engine compartment. Granted, I did once rebuild an old VW engine, or more accurately I fed a lot of beer to a friend who did it in my garage and told me what parts I should never touch (in my case any of them). Fortunately, this line of hooey was summarily out-trumped by a kid whose own distinguished father allowed him drive and fire a tank he brought home while in the army. I then heard one of the other Dads had won and Oscar Award and saved the President from an assassination attempt on his way to give the thank you speech. You have to admit that’s one a heck of a night by anyone’s standard. Why don’t I remember that…Why was the President at the Oscars?
“Dude…A tank? Was it loud? Did you hit anything?” My non-existent prowess as an inventor (not to mention the televised attempt on the President’s life at a Hollywood Gala) now tossed to the curb and crushed by tank-treads. It’s not like his Dad invented the tank…He just stole government property. My fake reputation slighted I vowed to confront the pre-teen liar. Only to realize the moment was gone. I turned to see a child’s teary eyes, the prestige of the young bombardier eclipsed by his neighbor who was declaring he had freshly sprouted hair on his forearms and his...I will be forever thankful for the goal in the hockey game and roar of the crowd that prevented me from hearing the end of that conversation.
We immediately drained my wife’s retirement account, started the paperwork for the 2nd mortgage and called Paris Hilton for the name of her event planner. Either that or dumbstruck we muttered “One event – the hockey game, one night sleepover cap at eight friends.” He jumped high and ran into his room, pausing only long enough to grab his cell phone and a snack, whoops and giggles cascading from behind the closed door. That’s when it hit me…We’d been played. Played and beaten.
On the night of the party my wife and I did “rock, paper, scissors” to see who took the boys to the boys to the game (more accurately, I put out my hand and she hit it with a rock then held the blade of a scissors desperately against my neck) I lost fair and square. My only concession being she would drop us off so I would only be responsible for the safety of the boys amongst twenty thousand rabid hockey fans and not the dangers of a dark parking lot.
I had forgotten the fact that all interaction between middle school boys consists entirely of either lies, or alternatively, whopper lies. Whoppers being identified by their preposterousness and the veracity with which they are defended. Actual example: I did not invent the air-cooled engine (or at least I do not recall the feat nor do I have a bank account that reflects such an achievement). Yet my son told his pals I did, and if they could find an old Volkswagen outside I would demonstrate how the engine works by jump starting it from the engine compartment. Granted, I did once rebuild an old VW engine, or more accurately I fed a lot of beer to a friend who did it in my garage and told me what parts I should never touch (in my case any of them). Fortunately, this line of hooey was summarily out-trumped by a kid whose own distinguished father allowed him drive and fire a tank he brought home while in the army. I then heard one of the other Dads had won and Oscar Award and saved the President from an assassination attempt on his way to give the thank you speech. You have to admit that’s one a heck of a night by anyone’s standard. Why don’t I remember that…Why was the President at the Oscars?
“Dude…A tank? Was it loud? Did you hit anything?” My non-existent prowess as an inventor (not to mention the televised attempt on the President’s life at a Hollywood Gala) now tossed to the curb and crushed by tank-treads. It’s not like his Dad invented the tank…He just stole government property. My fake reputation slighted I vowed to confront the pre-teen liar. Only to realize the moment was gone. I turned to see a child’s teary eyes, the prestige of the young bombardier eclipsed by his neighbor who was declaring he had freshly sprouted hair on his forearms and his...I will be forever thankful for the goal in the hockey game and roar of the crowd that prevented me from hearing the end of that conversation.
~ Jeff
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