Daddy Advice
This may be a bit too soon to think about, but I’ve been wondering what kind of Dad I’m going to be. I mean, bearing in mind that I actually might be a Dad (fuck the system man, I’m not making another slave for your corporate machine). The idea sounds cool.
Am I going to be mean? Am I going to be a “fun-dad”? Am I going to be accepting when my son comes out of the closet?
I don’t know. I’d like to think I’m going to be coolest, most-accepting Dad. But there are so many questions that linger.
I’ve worked with kids before. I’m decent with them. Actually, I’m exactly as I would expect with them. I have a lot of fun with them, I mean tons of fun, but I have a hard time being strict with them. I don’t do so well with punishments. My justification is always, “he/she’s just a kid, go easy on ‘em.” Even if they did bite off the hair of a counselor’s scalp. True story.
I still want to be the complete Dad (I mean if I have a kid of course. Seriously why would I want to create another mindless drone to work for some figurative beehive where he/she will inevitably want to kill his/herself?). So I sought to my own Dad to figure how to smooth out my rough edges.
What did he do to make me an “ok” kid?
He basically raised me as if I had gone through a war. You see, he was a veteran himself. A Vietnam Veteran to be exact.
He hoped I would never actually see what he had to see, but he wanted to show me what he saw through his parenting. I followed his every step, because why else? I loved him.
Simple moments like when I was a baby, he would greet me by yelling, “ten-hut!” and I would stand and gleam at my father’s presence. He wanted to instill a sense of authority over me and I wanted more baby powder on my bum.
By the time I was of a basic reading level, my mother and I would read together the Berenstain Bears and Franklin the Turtle. Then my Dad would take over, and sit me down to watch Platoon, Hamburger Hill, and Full Metal Jacket to help put me to sleep. By the time I was 9, I finally stopped crying when Private Pyle shoots himself (sorry spoiler alert).
He would see me playing with my friends, playing imaginary war or Cowboys and Indians or some sort of violent little boy game, and he would up the ante up the level of violence for authenticity purposes.
“Boy come here!”
“Am I in trouble Dad?”
“Yes you are! You do know that when you stab someone with a bayonet, you don’t stab them in the chest right?” prodding my chest.
“Because,” both of us simultaneously now, “if you stab them in the chest, it gets stuck, but if you stab them in the gut, he’s fucked.”
“Alright go back out there and have fun”
How can you not love the guy right?
I loved it. While other Dads gave their sons riddles concerning a wolf, a chicken, and some grain; my Dad asked me, “What would you say to God if he asks you, ‘Why did you shoot at those people in Vietnam?’”
Stumped, I’d respond, “Well it doesn’t matter because I’m the best Dad in the world.” He’d smile and then we would play catch.
By the time I was in High School, I wore an imaginary chip on my shoulder. As if I had experienced the horrors and atrocities of war. It was foolish of me. I’d scoff at the mention of war with my friends. They’d simply respond, “What does that mean Mike?”
“Let’s just say, I know some shit.”
“Ok well, let’s hope you know enough about the Battle of Lexington to present to the class.”
“Oh I know enough.”
“Ok, what maneuvers did the British implement after the first shots were fired?”
“Pshhh, next question—”
“You don’t know do you?”
“No.”
But in the end, his lessons did give value to the simpler things in life. It may have been ridiculous to any other person what my Dad did with me as a kid. But he had a very simple point: don’t take anything for granted. You go through some harsh or tough times to help you realize that you shouldn’t take anything for granted. Life is pretty cool sometimes.
I try not to. I’ll give in every now and then (ohh N64 how I miss thee). But I do appreciate what my Dad did for me and for his country. I appreciate my friends and I appreciate the fact that I have this crappy, crappy Dell to write this post.
I guess if I ever give in to our facists corporate overlords, drink some soma, and have a kid; that will be the best advice I can instill on him/her. Don’t take shit for granted, and appreciate life’s simplest moments. Until then, I’ve got some ragin’ to do.
