The parent gene
Some guy races down that long hill in Les Eboulements, on a trumped up skateboard. The usual reason: seeking a world record. My first reaction was to call son #1 and suggest he watch. My second reaction (less than a second later) was to call son #1 and distract him from watching TV. It’s the parent gene.
Son #3 wants a fence. Actually, he wants to build a fence. Given that he has no experience in the domain, I’m wondering where I can purchase a few boxes of popsicle sticks. For practice, etc. The parent gene…
I know, it’s late. They’re all adults (according to the law of the land). My urge is still there. I want to guide, with a firm hand and a small degree of legerdemain. A parent’s work is never really done (or so I was brought up to believe). Combine that urge with training as an educator (wherein you parent large groups in society, against their will, for hours each day) and you’ve got the makings of a perfect storm.
At least I’m not a freak about table manners, or the cut of their cloth. A small blessing for the target. Now, back to the fence. Why? Is this a Freudian cry for more control, after the fact? Does son #3 really have a need for poolside privacy, or a place where he can play for hours on end, knowing that I’ll keep the gate securely latched.
I’ve agreed to examine the issue. That means he will have the pleasure of checking city bylaws. The mathematical exercise of pricing materials. And should he persevere, the physical effort of trying to dig postholes in solid limestone. After all, that’s what a parent does.
