…of independence

In Canada, the fourth of July is a day like all the others. In the US, they celebrate freedom and independence, the right to bear arms and the idea that all are created equal but can be treated unequally.

Hi, I’m shit and this is my son, little shit.

“Dad, you say that every day.”

“Really!”

“Yeah, it’s boring.”

“Oh.”

We’re halfway to his day camp. The morning started with Noah knowing everything about everything, with attitude. Then, my selection of socks for him was not right, didn’t match his clothes. The pair he chose was worse, but I kept my peace.

“You know what’s suckish about camp…?”

It’s the second week of summer camp and he’s really not into it. I let him make the inventory of what doesn’t meet with his approval. I’ve heard it all before, several times. I resist making the Automatic Parenting Sounds of Comfort.

“Noah, look at the squirrels. They all stop and stare as we go by, as if they’re planning a secret takeover of the park and we’re interrupting. Funny.”

“Not really.”

I have a hard enough time dragging my ass out of bed and into useful activity, these days. This doesn’t help.

“Aaahhhh, this knapsack is like rubbing right where I have a sunburn.”

“Here, I’ll carry it for you.”

He gratefully unloads on me.

Suddenly, a bike goes whistling by me, inches from hitting me in the back.

“Slow down.” I yell at the receding hell rider. Bikes aren’t even allowed in the park.

“Some people really only care about themselves. You know?”

“Dad, you say that every day.”

“Really!”

“Yeah, it’s boring.”

“Oh.”

Enough.

“Well when I’ll be dead, it’ll be forever. Maybe then you’ll wish you could hear me saying it again.”

Oh yeah! I went there.

He shrugs his shoulders. His unencumbered shoulders. I slip his bag off my back and drop it at his feet.

“Here, I’m tired of carrying your weight.”

“Dad, you could have given it me, not drop it. You know, if….”

“Stop it. I have no interest in listening to your critique.”

He picks up speed and walks away from me. The hell with this. I sit down on the nearest bench. He walks on… too engrossed in his resentment to notice. He reaches the end of the walk and is forced to wait for the light to change. Only then does he realize I’m way back. He waits.

No way am I going to get up. It’s over. I’m not moving anymore. Ever.

He waits. I pick my nose. Flick it at the squirrel staring at me.

Finally, he shuffles back. He tries to compose his face into an expression of disapproval. But it’s a comical frown. A smile slips away from me. He smiles back. Then we both fight our faces back into a pout. More appropriate.

“You know, Noah, I give you way more respect that you give me. I spend literally hours every day accompanying you to camp, then shopping, cooking, washing this and that. Love and respect. That’s what I’m all about. I expect the same back.”

I get up and start walking again.

“You think staying at home would be great. But I know that you would be bored to tears within days. And then camp would look good, but there would be no place and you and i would be stuck all summer.”

“You’ve told me that before.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to tell you again.”

Hearing myself saying the same things over and over and over….devastating.

But that’s what you’ve got to do until they grow up, move away, damn you for being such a lame parent, have a kid and find themselves repeating the same things over and over…..

“Dad, I’m sorry.”

Damn, that’s the catch. I love the kid.