“The child is father of the man” – William Wordsworth
By the time a boy is 15 or 16 years old, he has inherited his definition of manhood. Observations of his father play a major part, as do experiences with other male role models. Your first basketball coach, who taught discipline, teamwork and selflessness. Your first boss who expected you to adhere to a code of conduct and to complete a list of tasks in a prompt and effective manner.
The high school teacher whose chalk-stained sport coat hung just against the ledge of the blackboard, gathering ever more chalk dust as he droned on by rote, teaching you both algebra and the danger of settling for “good enough.”
But at the end of the day, and at the end of your twenties, it comes back to dad. Dad, who left home before you were awake and returned after it was dark. Dad, who delayed dinner and set your stomachs to rumbling because “…we’ll eat when your father gets home.” Dad, who sat you on his lap and let you steer the car as he worked the pedals, and you felt so empowered, so privileged, so grown up.
Dad, who listened to you bemoan student loan payments and a steady diet of tuna, spaghetti and powdered iced tea mix, and cheered your first job after college, and visited your first apartment, which was scarcely bigger than your childhood bedroom.
“Work hard,” he said. “If you work hard and pay your dues, you’ll be rewarded. You’ve just got to pay your dues first. Everyone does. Someday you’ll get married and have kids of your own and you’ll provide them with a home, hot meals, clothing and school. That’s what you’ll do.”
And that’s what you do. You marry a beautiful woman. You find a decent job. Nothing that’ll buy a house on Capri but it’ll pay the bills and allow for a small vacation to the shore in the summer. You have a child, then two. You’re paying the bills. You’re providing for your family. You’re a man.
“…I’m gonna be like you, Dad. You know I’m gonna be like you….” – Harry Chapin
“I shall call him…Mini Me.” – Dr. Evil
“Join me, and together we can rule the galaxy as father and son.” – Darth Vader
I’m a nerd. Before you say, “Oh, Dave, no you’re not,” let me stop you. Yes, I am, and I love it.
I watch Nova. I’ve seen the Star Wars movies more often than George Lucas has. Charts and graphs make me happy. I long for my days in band (not “a band” like Van Halen, but “band,” like “ride the bus with the woodwind section.”).
My iPod is full of audio books, not music, and our basement is brimming with vintage computers in various states of repair, especially the room I’ve cornered off as my Man Cave. Furthermore, I believe that everything in the world is a knowable system. For a thorough description of a nerd’s perspective, look here.
As a kid I spent a lot of time taking things apart, much to my parents’ dismay, to see how they work. Radios, clocks, etc. all ended up a pile of parts on the basement floor. The cool thing is, my kids seem to be future nerds. Nerdettes, if you will. Here is the evidence I put forth.
I try to keep myself organized. Not “Martha” organized, but somewhere between her ideal and the aftermath of a nuclear detonation. This past weekend I was going through old photos (remember when “going through old photos” involved shoe boxes and rubber bands, not computers and hard drives?), which is a risky task. I invariably get distracted by the nostalgia of it all, and the next thing I know, four hours have passed and I’ve accomplished nothing.
And, wouldn’t you know — I paused when I found the shot you see above.
Well-intentioned friends and relatives have been sending us dress-up clothes. A bevy of princess dresses can trash a bedroom in less than five minutes. The cleanup time is substantially greater, and accompanied by a soundtrack of whining and negotiation:
“Honey, you clean up these dresses and I’ll help you zip it.”
“But I caaaaaan’t. I’m too tiiiiired.”
“You pick up these pink ones, honey, and daddy will help with the rest.”
“But daddy, it’s too hard.”
“If you weren’t tired enough to make this mess, you aren’t tired enough to clean it up.”
Ah, you’re growing up so quickly. It’s been a few days since our last man-to-man. We’re a little older, a little wiser — and a little closer to the years when you’ll want nothing to do with me. Thus, it’s time for another talk. Like I said last time, this is important, so pay attention.
1. Learn how to make a decent paper airplane. Don’t scoff, this is important. A good paper airplane will allow you to entertain yourself, impress your friends, annoy your teachers, and even amaze other kids once you’re an adult like your old man. It requires only a single sheet of paper, so you can whip one out almost anywhere — the airport, a restaurant, Easter Sunday Mass — and often for free. What’s more, you can use almost anything you find lying around, like a place mat or a parking ticket.
There’s more to it than simply folding a piece of paper into a triangle and tossing it onto the floor. First, fold a lengthwise sheet of paper in half, then lay it flat again. Fold the top two corners to meet the seam you made, then do so again. Next, re-fold the paper in half along the lengthwise seam. Finally, fold each side in half so that the top meets the bottom edge to make wings. Throw and enjoy. Note that putting a paper clip on the nose doesn’t really help, despite what people will tell you.
December brings lists, and MSNBC has published the top baby names of the decade. Thanks to celebrities like Gweneth Paltrow, afflictions like Apple and Nevaeh (“heaven” spelled backward) are more popular than ever. Fortunately, classics like Emma and Emily, Jacob and Matthew are still in the top ten.
I agree with George above: Nine times out of ten, Nicky, Vinny and Tony will beat the shit out of Todd, Kyle and Tucker.
I looked at my mother through the dirty screen door. She wore bright yellow elbow-length rubber gloves and a look of determination — “You are NOT coming back in this house.” I turned around and walked into the yard, defeated.
A few hours later, when my mother was again talking to me through the screen, the conversation was quite different.
“I said come in here now! It’s time to eat”
“No! I want to stay outside.”
“David, I am not kidding…”
Such were my childhood summers. I spent a lot of time outside so that my mother was able to get things done unburdened by a whining, needy kid.
Today, I feel guilty if I don’t spend every waking moment on the floor, exploiting every educational opportunity that presents itself. I recently read an article that described this phenomenon as a generational thing, more prevalent among parents in their thirties than previous generations.
“The child is father of the man” – William Wordsworth
