The Brawler

The following appears in the March edition of Chicago Parent.

Back when they were toddlers, my oldest two boys struggled with park rule breakers and preschool anarchists. Every time a child cut in front of them in line for the slide or pushed them off the swings, my sons would look at me expectantly:

TELL ‘EM MOMMY.

The problem was, I couldn’t. The little hooligans’ mothers were usually only steps away either ignoring the behavior or pretending it was fine.

But in the secrecy and safety of my home, I became the Godfather.

“You give ONE warning, and then you pop them in the nose. HARD.”

In case you missed it, I am vintage. The rules of the playground still count for a lot in my book.

The only problem? My boys never retaliated. It simply wasn’t their nature. They were scared to get in trouble despite my many assurances I had their backs when it came to bullies and scallywags.

Then came Joey. The youngest. The one I never thought was listening but who was actually absorbing every last word.

Joey clocked his first kid when he was two years old at a McDonald’s Play Place. The offender threw a ball at his head after Joey asked him to stop. I grabbed our Happy Meals and ran like hell.

When he was three, an older boy jokingly grabbed a stuffed animal out of Joey’s hands. Joey responded with a stiff uppercut and a blood-curdling scream of righteous indignation. I still fear for the long-term psychological damage to that child.

By four, Joey was the line minder at every amusement park, children’s museum, and birthday party he attended. Any kid who dared cut got an immediate dressing down along with a strong shove by Joey the Enforcer: 

THERE’S A LINE YOU KNOW.

The crazy thing is, Joey is silly and good-natured. He is always happy. He loves everyone. He has no real animosity towards anyone.

Until he becomes Inigo Montoya:

You killed my father, prepare to die.

Having boys on both ends of the dove-hawk spectrum, I do not know which is better.

But I do know that nobody will ever cut in front of me so long Joey is around.

Rarely Pure & Never Simple

The following appears in the February edition of Chicago Parent.

I came home the other day to an athletic cup sitting on my kitchen counter. Denials were issued all around.

I am not sure how I feel about living in a world where athletic cups wondrously appear from the heavens.

Yet, it was not the only miracle that week.

Earlier, I discovered an entire cache of Halloween candy wrappers shoved deep under my couch cushions.

The boys vowed solemnly that they were unaware of the witchcraft that placed them in this location. One son theorized a friend might have left them there. Another child suggested the wrappers were purchased with the couch. The last one speculated it was his father.

Deeply upset that my brood was obviously in cahoots with Pinocchio, I reached for the nukes.

God, one dead grandmother, and the risk of eternal damnation later, I still could not secure a confession.

Technology was confiscated. Treats were withheld. Tears were shed.

Nothing.

Frustrated and angry that my usual methods were failing, I thought about high school. If they were lying to me now over minor offenses, what would our world be like when the big dogs came into play? Drinking. Driving. Drugs. How could I keep them safe and on course when I couldn’t even get a straight answer on the durable hard-shell protective cup now sitting in my kitchen with “Protect this House” plastered across it?

In order to protect this house, I needed the truth! That’s when Joe called from the firehouse. He reminded me to order a new pair of athletic pants for Jack because his old ones were ripped. “I took out the cup, we can use those with another pair. I left it on the counter so you wouldn’t forget.”

This sounded vaguely familiar. I went for broke.

“Do you know anything about how a bunch of old candy wrappers wound up under the couch?”

Joe hesitated.

He’d make a terrible felon.

The boys are officially off the hook and I feel perfectly ready for high school. I totally got this.

Now please don’t hook me up to a lie-detector.