Priorities

So many topics, so little space. Some newsworthy, some not. I could write about Mark McGuire’s long delayed admission, but I won’t. I could write about Sarah Palin getting her own show on Fox Network (who else?), but I won’t. Too bad too, I could have a field day with that one. What’s next, giving air time in the form of a talk show to a trained chimp that can sign? When I heard that news, the image of an esoteric, perverted version of Flowers for Algernon in reverse sprung to mind.

I could write about the fucking freezing (literally) weather we’ve been having in South Florida these past two weeks, but I won’t. People all over the country have experienced much worse, and they aren’t whining about it. I could write about my passion, baseball, and how MLB and the players union called out the Florida Marlins concerning their business practices. But why beat a dead horse? I’ve been suspicious about that franchise for quite some time now.

I could write about Lane Kiffin dissing Tennessee, and taking the head coaching job at USC. But just typing his name activates my gag reflex. However, I can’t wait to hear him put his foot in his mouth when he hates on Stanford, calling them a bunch of intellectual losers, or something along those lines.

I could write about the recent earthquake in Haiti; the first seismic activity on the island country in two-hundred years. Everybody’s shocked. I think the opposite reaction should’ve occurred. The more time passes, the more likely something will eventually happen, right?

For a variety of reasons, not one of these topics comes as a surprise to anyone. I shouldn’t have given this much attention to any of them. Last Friday I knew what I wanted to write about. None of the bullshit previously mentioned has changed anything one iota.

Many of you who read this have children. You talk about them when I see those who live in close proximity. For others, I see how you gush about them on Facebook. I sense the satisfaction of a job well done. The pride permeates every syllable, and justifiably so. Whether we realize it or not, our offspring are our greatest accomplishment. Who we think we are, or how we are perceived by others, is directly correlated to how our kids turned out. It doesn’t matter that he or she didn’t secure that Senate seat. It doesn’t matter that there have been brushes with the law. It doesn’t matter that they didn’t turn out exactly as we had planned. All that matters is that at one time or another, they’ve brought joy to varying degrees. And we adore them for it. We always will. That’s the best part about unconditional love. The joy may not be constant, but it always returns eventually.

We all want the same thing for our kids that most of our parents wanted for us; a better life than they had. It wasn’t going to come without some effort on our parts, as it should be for the next generation as well. So what do we do? We put a life plan in motion. We teach them to say “please” and “thank you” at the appropriate time; a part of the vernacular that’s slowly going the way of Latin. We arm our kids with a set of guidelines consisting of ethics and morals that serve as the fertile soil so they may one day reap the fruits of our labor.

My parents endured a drought the likes of which was last seen during the Dust Bowl era. I tried to correct that when my turn came. What I lacked was a plow. My child would be raised hydroponically. The results were what you’d imagine if you are at all familiar with hydroponics.

My son Cory, who some of you have come to know remotely through these weekly ramblings, celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday Sunday. He wasn’t terribly happy about it. I can only venture guesses as to why this milestone should cause any angst at all.

He’s made references to his “Silver Anniversary.” He’s got that feeling of “aging” that only youth can warp. He could intuit that his time as a student is drawing to close. He’s in no frame of mind to accept the notion that while one great adventure is ending, another is right around the corner. He may even feel that he can’t possibly top what he’s had the pleasure to experience this first quarter of a century. I’m grateful that the highs far outnumber the lows. And if his zest for life is any indication, the second twenty-five shouldn’t be any different.
When Cory was born, the term tabula rasa applied to both of us. He may have been a “blank slate;” up to that point in my life, I was more a “fill-in-the-blanks.” In addition, I was devoid of any inherent parental skills. All I knew was Cory didn’t ask to be here, and it was my duty to raise him to the best of my ability. Eventually it became my honor and privilege.

I spent a lot of time reading about child rearing. Some of what I read was a load of fluff and bullshit sociological and psychological theories. Most of what I did was extemporaneous; a lot was trial and error. I was, and still am, a big believer in post-natal exposure. I read to him out of the dictionary. I read Sports Illustrated to him long before this was depicted in Three Men and a Baby. We listened to music everyday. We watched the tape of the legendary Villanova-Georgetown NCAA Championship basketball game, trying to instill the “whole is greater than the sum of its parts” hypothesis.

We watched a lot of baseball, then I’d read a kid’s book. We’d watched football, and then read a kid’s book. We’d watched Bugs Bunny, then I’d read Cory articles out of Time magazine. All the while I’m carrying on a close personal relationship with Johnnie Walker, as well as imagining if Rockies were really as cold as advertised through my numerous samplings. We were a testament to the adage that “god watches out for drunks and little children.”

As each year passed, other mothers and fathers were always warning me that the luster of parenthood would soon wear off. When Cory turned two I heard, “Oh just wait until he does this, that, or the other thing” that was indicative for two year olds. This, that, or the other thing never materialized. When he turned three, four, five, and so on, it was always the same bullshit, and the result was always the same.
I will say, there was that two and half year period starting in seventh grade when I somehow turned into a real dick in his eyes, but that situation corrected itself by the each of his freshman year of high school. Every year since has brought new goals, new accomplishments, new respect for each other.

In Cory’s twenty-third year he received his undergraduate degree from the University of Florida where he had been attending on a full academic scholarship. I was fortunate enough to be seated on the aisle as he passed by me on his way to take his place on the stage with the other graduates. My thoughts turned to what I had accomplished by the time I was his age.

I had quit college once, and thrown out another. I had wrecked ten cars. I had a felony drug conviction. I had my first DUI. I had done a stint in jail. I had gambled away thousands. And here I was basking in the glow of my son’s achievement, secure in the knowledge I had something to do with him arriving at this point. Gives a man pause.

Cory has turned out to be the kid I envisioned him becoming before he celebrated his first birthday. Sunday he celebrated his twenty-fifth. Our relationship continues to grow. We have weathered all the warnings of naysayers concerning his teen years. Now that he is an adult, the admonitions come in the form of how we’ll become more and more estranged as Cory makes his own life. To those I say a resounding “Fuck you.”
I’m looking forward to each of the next twenty-five.