There’s a commercial on TV these days that just gets me. It’s one of those ‘Who would you buy a Volvo for?’ spots that has this little girl about four or five being seat-belted into the car by her very caring, yuppie father. She’s yammering away in that little kid way, non-stop words winding all around, sounding like they’re going to make sense any minute but maybe not. And the dad, straight out of central casting as everything you would want in a sperm donor, just can’t take his adoring eyes off her in his rear view mirror even as his mind frantically searches for what the hell she could possibly be talking about. What parent doesn’t know that sensation?
The reality-check feeling, though, is when your kid says something exactly true. Back when I used to seat belt my kids in the car, our family was on our way to a wedding and their father was complaining about one of his schmucky relatives and how much he hoped he wouldn’t be there. He kept using the word schmuck instead of the relative’s name thinking that would somehow immunize him from being overheard in the back seat. So after we’re at the wedding about a half hour, I find out that Daughter, who was about the same age as the little Volvo girl, was going guest-to-guest asking each guy, “Are you the schmuck?”
More champagne over here, please.
When Son was about that age, his father participated in Career Day at school. That’s the day when a kid’s parents with hopefully interesting jobs show up and tell all about what they do and why it’s important. His dad, a podiatrist, took with him a sports page photo of Doc Gooden going into his windup as an example of how much we rely on our feet to support us. He held up the photo and asked the class, “Can anyone tell me what Doc Gooden is doing?” To which a little boy called out, “Six months in rehab.”
Ok, make it a vodka.
Even better than kids saying what they shouldn’t is adults you admire revealing a hidden thought. Daughter’s preschool teacher in Brooklyn was nearly a saint; calm and fair with a Buddha-like smile and endless patience. On a trip to an animal farm that I helped chaperone, one of the classmates was so impossibly obnoxious that he became my pick for Birth Control Poster Boy. After he tormented a gentle horse to the point that the animal bit him, the farm’s agitated director came over and apologized profusely. With little Monster Boy wailing and the director wringing her hands saying the horse had never done anything like this before, I distinctly heard St. Teacher mutter under her breath that the horse had chosen wisely.
Buy that lady a drink.