If only I could bottle my little lads' energy and optimism, I could make a ton of money selling the magic potion to parents whose offspring have entered the teen malaise dazed phase.
For example, a couple of weeks back, Melissa told three of the four boys of the Apocalypse that their overnight visit with me pivoted on when (or whether) I painted a bedroom.
They couldn't understand why they would have to stay away while I painted, because they couldn't IMAGINE that I wouldn't want/need their help. They clamored to know why they couldn't.
I will acknowledge that they — even 3-year-old Luke — do a great job staying in the lines when they pull out their crayons to color and/or draw trains and Transformers and SpongeBobs.
I may be a Mike, but I’m no Michelangelo, and I have enough trouble staying in the lines myself when it comes to painting, especially when the wall is bumping up into a popcorn ceiling. I venture to say that the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel would look MUCH different if Michelangelo had had to contend with that nightmarish surface.
Anyway, I knew having them under foot would just rattle my nerves further and increase the shakiness of my unsteady hand. And there was no way I was even tempted to let them try to paint "just a little bit."
In their minds' eyes, you see, they see the walls as canvasses awaiting their talented hands. They don't know how hard it is to paint, especially when one of your main goals is to cover the wall with just one coat.
(And THAT brings up a parenthetical aside: Time was — and it wasn't all that long ago because a sprout like me remembers it — when you could find paint that WOULD cover with just one coat. Now, all paint companies do is prime you with false promises that end up looking more bleached out than Tom Sawyer's whitewash.
(Such as the brand I will leave unnamed as I bare my soul about its claim of being a miracle potion because it includes not only the paint but also the primer.
(I also will not name the chain that sells it because even bad publicity is good — and that chain with the orange sign doesn't deserve any for being the depot of deception with this primed paint, which it implies STRONGLY that it will cover miraculously.
(I'm not one who subscribes to conspiracy theories — I believe that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone and that ballplayers never would use steroids — but I believe that paint companies have conspired not only to make paint that won't cover but also to jack up the prices for it just to sell paint. [I’ve seen political cover-ups with more sticking power than paint these days.]
(Indeed, some companies used to tout one-coat-covers-all as a selling point, and their paint did cover. Now, all of a sudden, even premium brands admit right on the can [not in the commercials though, because those aim to suck you into the store] that you might need four coats. They charge more to cover less to sell more. It's a vicious cycle.
(That ends my parenthetical rant: Just don't believe everything TV commercials say about paint with primer in it. You’ll end up paraphrasing and echoing Roy Scheider in “Jaws,” in one of my all-time favorite movie lines. Instead of "You're gonna need a bigger boat," the mantra should be: "You're gonna need another coat.")
So the boys were going to help. Well, I’ve seen their work, and even though I think their drawings are quite advanced for kids their age, I’ve also seen some very colorful, but errant, jabs at walls, cushions, carpets, etc. Here’s an example of what can happen, although it’s not from my family archives:
Their willingness, though, is a prime example of the difference between the unbridled confidence of youngsters, who believe they can do anything, and we adults, who often feel so beaten down that we can’t do anything.
Such as Vincent’s first experience at a professional baseball game. He was probably around 4 when he went with his mom and dad. He dutifully, and reverently took his baseball glove in case a fly came his way.
As it turned out, he thought that also meant he would be playing in the game.
After sitting patiently through a couple of innings, he turned to his parents and said, “Mommy and Daddy, when am I going in?”
I can identify with that, as I used to imagine being a ballplayer and snagging every grounder and fly hit my way.
Reality set in the day when I was about 10, playing shortstop and a ball scooted through my legs. Imagine my embarrassment when my stepmother’s shout echoed across the field, “MICHAEL JOSEPH TIGHE.”
That pivotal moment changed my fielding skills from being a Hoover to being a sieve.
Of course, Vincent’s epiphany wasn’t as brutal, as his parents gently explained to him that it takes a long time to become a ballplayer, and a team has to hire you. But he quickly lost interest and asked to go home.
So he’ll put off that career decision until another day.
Speaking of kids and decisions, here’s an old joke from an old friend that bears repeating. (She’s not an old friend in the sense of being longtime, but in the sense of being OLD. Her most recent missive to me was how ga-ga she was over Opie making the cover of AARP.)
As kids grow to adulthood, they face the inevitable decision on the facts of life: when to start cussing.
For example, a 7-year-old and a 5-year-old (NOT Vincent and Jack, by the way) are discussing their next step to adulthood.
"You know what?" says the 7-year-old. "I think it's about time we started cussing."
The 5-year-old nods his head in approval, and the 7-year-old continues, "When we go downstairs for breakfast, I'm gonna say something with hell and you say something with ass."
The 5-year-old agrees with enthusiasm.
When the mother (NOT Melissa, by the way) walks into the kitchen and asks the 7-year-old what he wants for breakfast, he replies, "Aw, hell, Mom, I guess I'll have some Cheerios."
WHACK! He flies out of his chair, tumbles across the kitchen floor, gets up, and runs upstairs crying his eyes out, with his mother in hot pursuit, slapping his rear with every step. (That’s PROOF it’s not Melissa, because theirs is a no-spanking household.)
His mom locks him in his room and shouts, "You can stay there until I let you out!"
She then comes back downstairs, looks at the 5-year-old and asks with a stern voice, "And what do YOU want for breakfast, young man?"
"I don't know," he blubbers, "but you can bet your fat ass it won't be Cheerios!"
Ba-da-BUMP!
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