“Look, we’re the kids. And we’re not here to clean up after ourselves.”
We told our three children that they should pitch in to help around the house with the chores.
Our 12-year-old daughter said, “OK,” sounding rather like she will help out, while her nine-year-old brother murmured something to the effect of an affirmation as long as it doesn’t interfere with his Xbox gaming.
The youngest wasn’t buying it.
“Oh, yeah, I get it,” the six-year-old said. “We will have to make our beds, sweep the floors and do the dishes. We will have to do all the jobs that you should do. I think there must be some sort of misunderstanding. You’re the adults, we’re the kids.”
“If I keep this up, I’ll certainly get crowned.”
My youngest daughter walked past me in the hallway saying “pardon” over and over again on her way to her bedroom.
“What on earth are you doing?” I asked.
The six-year-old stopped and looked up at me blankly.
“I’m saying ‘pardon’ for all the naughty stuff I will do in the future,” she said before turning and resuming her chant for an eternity of grace, or at least for as long as she could keep it up.
“Yeah, we surf. Don’t we, Dad.”
In Argentina, most boys play football.
Mine sort of does.
He also ice skates.
I’m a modern dad, so that’s cool. Ziggy Stardust pops to mind; so do other things. But hey, I liked the flute as a kid, and my nine-year-old son likes the recorder and is pretty good at it.
When he was a toddler, I thought he’d grow up to be a skateboard and surf rat, spit and cuss.
He cuts up the rink, sort of. The intention is there, and he’s getting better. A good thing, I guess, is that he’s made a lot of girlfriends on the ice. They say, “Hey.” And he says, “Hey.” That’s pretty cool. [continue reading…]
