Last week end it was "Fathers Day". Some strange things happened on that day that made me feel like an inadequate father and a bad son. I would just prefer not to be singled out for any praises anytime unless a ton of money is attached to the praise. That has yet to happen and probably will not.
The "children", the people I work with every day at my place of employment decided that I needed some attention when I come in first thing in the morning. There is a fifty yard walk from the parking lot to the entrance to the building. Our offices are on the second floor and the children have taken to opening the windows and applauding and cheering for me as I walk to the building. It is quite embarrassing. I now circle around to the back of the building and enter that way. I like to be appreciated but not applauded, like I said unless they are throwing money out the window as they cheer. I never feel completely secure and deserving with accolades of a kind.
Now, Fathers Day. Is it Father's day, a possessive kind of thing or is it Fathers day, a plural kind of thing? I am not even sure I understand what I just asked or if it is a question at all. I ended it with a question mark just in case. Regardless, an old friend of mine, God rest his soul used to tell me, "you never know what your raised until they are grown!" I assume most people have high, noble hopes for their children when they are born. Soon life starts getting in the way and sacrifices are made to your moral fiber and you have to pay for milk and diapers and hope for the rent. Your children's nurturing is sacrificed for overtime to pay the electric bill. My kids say nice things on this day and I believe they are sincere.
There are the opportunities for growth that I did not let the children experience and the poor situational choices that I left them to make in several instances that haunt me during the sincere praise. Fathers day is like a yearly review of my life and frankly I am getting tired of it. Too much examination of my life is like watching Fonzie jump the shark over and over again. It is like watching someone make sausage with a hand grinder. More leftover shit meat, more spices and more grinding, a ceaseless grinding. I did some things good and bad that I know they remember. I guess as they grown older they too will reflect yearly on those things and maybe that is the sincerity that they now show.
As for a bad son, I was not. I was a unique and difficult son. Life was a fog and yet clear to me. My father could not understand that. Mom said she did but she was just being a mom. I wish my father was still around to aggravate. The confused look on his face when I confounded him was priceless. I never really did it on purpose. Half way through whatever nonsense I was involved in I would think about my dad and imagine his consternation. He let me be me and just tried to guide me through the maze. And I always got through the maze. I was clueless but he kept my feet moving and suddenly I was in a clearing looking for another adventure.
I recommend that very few people procreate. It is just not worth it. The village has no idea how to raise children. The government is neglectful of children. Being brought into this world is a highly unfair and spiteful thing to do to a child. Even the people that I think could be good parents should reconsider. Raising children is too much work and it never ends. Worrying about kids and trying to set a good example in a world of terrible examples is a lifetime sentence of self examination. I hate it. I want to fly off into a rage against childbirth. To borrow and mangle a paraphrase from Cal Ripken's father, "Perfect parenting makes perfect children". Bull shit. There is no such thing as a perfect parent or a perfect child. Well, I lost my point somewhere. Maybe not.
The "children", the people I work with every day at my place of employment decided that I needed some attention when I come in first thing in the morning. There is a fifty yard walk from the parking lot to the entrance to the building. Our offices are on the second floor and the children have taken to opening the windows and applauding and cheering for me as I walk to the building. It is quite embarrassing. I now circle around to the back of the building and enter that way. I like to be appreciated but not applauded, like I said unless they are throwing money out the window as they cheer. I never feel completely secure and deserving with accolades of a kind.
Now, Fathers Day. Is it Father's day, a possessive kind of thing or is it Fathers day, a plural kind of thing? I am not even sure I understand what I just asked or if it is a question at all. I ended it with a question mark just in case. Regardless, an old friend of mine, God rest his soul used to tell me, "you never know what your raised until they are grown!" I assume most people have high, noble hopes for their children when they are born. Soon life starts getting in the way and sacrifices are made to your moral fiber and you have to pay for milk and diapers and hope for the rent. Your children's nurturing is sacrificed for overtime to pay the electric bill. My kids say nice things on this day and I believe they are sincere.
There are the opportunities for growth that I did not let the children experience and the poor situational choices that I left them to make in several instances that haunt me during the sincere praise. Fathers day is like a yearly review of my life and frankly I am getting tired of it. Too much examination of my life is like watching Fonzie jump the shark over and over again. It is like watching someone make sausage with a hand grinder. More leftover shit meat, more spices and more grinding, a ceaseless grinding. I did some things good and bad that I know they remember. I guess as they grown older they too will reflect yearly on those things and maybe that is the sincerity that they now show.
As for a bad son, I was not. I was a unique and difficult son. Life was a fog and yet clear to me. My father could not understand that. Mom said she did but she was just being a mom. I wish my father was still around to aggravate. The confused look on his face when I confounded him was priceless. I never really did it on purpose. Half way through whatever nonsense I was involved in I would think about my dad and imagine his consternation. He let me be me and just tried to guide me through the maze. And I always got through the maze. I was clueless but he kept my feet moving and suddenly I was in a clearing looking for another adventure.
I recommend that very few people procreate. It is just not worth it. The village has no idea how to raise children. The government is neglectful of children. Being brought into this world is a highly unfair and spiteful thing to do to a child. Even the people that I think could be good parents should reconsider. Raising children is too much work and it never ends. Worrying about kids and trying to set a good example in a world of terrible examples is a lifetime sentence of self examination. I hate it. I want to fly off into a rage against childbirth. To borrow and mangle a paraphrase from Cal Ripken's father, "Perfect parenting makes perfect children". Bull shit. There is no such thing as a perfect parent or a perfect child. Well, I lost my point somewhere. Maybe not.
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