Stupid Parent Tricks

When I was seventeen, I took a month-long trip to California courtesy my parents, who bought me the round-trip flight as part of my high school graduation gift. I visited an uncle in San Francisco and had my first look at the Golden Gate Bridge; some cousins in San Pedro, whose parents—my aunt and uncle—were bona fide hippies; and my dear aunt and her teen children in San Diego, where I spent time smoking cigarettes and dancing with the Point Loma version of the Valley Girls. It was as much a tour of the California coastline and its varying geography north-to-south as it was a view of the California family, the likes of which I had only witnessed on The Brady Bunch and The Courtship of Eddie’s Father. And, of course, through stories retold after my mother’s long phone conversations with her California siblings.

My insights focused on the little stuff. The way Aunt Susie haphazardly folded her towels and shoved them into the bathroom closet was so different from my mom’s careful method of creasing and tri-folding. And Uncle Larry leaving all his Wall Street Journals stacked up on the side of the toilet until they became a little endtable of their own was nothing my own dad could ever pull off. The look of my little cousins at the beachside café in bare feet, like those LIFE magazine pictures of the blonde commune kids of the sixties. Everything seemed so loose and carefree. It was at this same café that I first made note of the stupid parent trick.

A little tyke at the next table, a pudgy three-year-old with nimble hands, picked up one of the dollar bills left for a tip. I watched him and wondered if any of the parents would realize he was about to tear it into pieces or stuff it into his mouth. But he didn’t do that. He carefully smoothed out all the creases and unfolded the corners like an origami artist. Then he cleared away a space in front of him and rolled the bill into a tight little straw, which he deftly put up his nose and used to snort up the spilled salt and sugar and whatever else was left on the table. It was the seventies, where cocaine played a part in late-night parties but before it became a staple of sorts for big business investors and takeover artists of the eighties. I couldn’t believe it. The group of loose-knit caregivers never paid the kid a look during this tell-all performance. It was the tyke’s trick, but it was clear the parents’ stupid trick was one of foolhardy neglect and, no doubt, damaging indifference.

So now that I’m a parent I keep track of all my own stupid parent tricks, large and small. I like to think they are originally well-meant but accidental, but I admit with guilt that some of them are my own failing to pay close attention. It reminds me of a warning by my old dance teacher, “You can dance this now, but by the time you are sixteen,” she would say with real urgency in her voice, “your body will start to deteriorate year by year. It will be a matter of work to keep it fluid and strong.” While my kids are young they think most of my mistakes make for good storytelling but I wonder what work it will be for them to reconcile my mistakes later, when they’re older and wiser or troubled or confused? How will they keep our family stories fluid and strong when they’re generally just pissed off at me or their lots in life?

Here’s a new one to add to my repertoire. I took my 12-year-old son to see Borat last week, the new movie everyone is calling hilarious and smart. “The man who invented Borat is a masterful improviser, brilliant comedian, courageous political satirist, and genuinely experimental film artist. Borat makes you laugh, but Baron Cohen forces you to think.” (City Pages, November 2006). I didn’t notice the “R” rating and hadn’t looked up a full review of the film. I had seen the trailer a dozen times on prime time network television and it seemed like my well-read son might get the politics and appreciate the satire.

Okay, have you seen Borat? Have you seen it with a 12-year-old, a kid who still likes to be “all tucked in,” the one who was so mortified during sixth-grade sex education class that his pals told me, “holy cow, his face turned all white and then he ran out to throw up in the boys’ bathroom”? No, I bet you haven’t. You're probably way more careful than that.

So here we are at the Har Mar 3, a little mother-son day with a matineé and popcorn and pop. We hadn’t had an outing for awhile and we were just glad to be together. We settled on a seat at the end of the 21st row, not too far, not too close, and we kept whispering about the new Eragon preview, a movie we both couldn’t wait to see.

And then we were just bombarded with a slew. We were like my Presbyterian deacon hearing Howard Stern for the first time, or my long-nosed grandma hearing Richard Pryor on stage when she thought he might be a little like Cosby. Crap. I sunk down deep in my seat and leaned over to Timmy to say, “Maybe we shouldn’t have come to this movie.” I could tell he was blushing, even in the dark. Then there was a flash of Borat masturbating and another of him propositioning a passerby, “How much?” he asks, “how much for that?” he says pointing to her breast and grabbing his crotch. And then right after we learn a nice new word for Borat's anus, the spot where his companion is blow-drying him in the hotel, Tim leans over and says to me, “Maybe we should go now.” We bolted up the aisle and I asked for our money back. The ticket-taker said, “What did you expect? It was rated ‘R’ for a reason.”

Out on the sidewalk in front of the Barnes and Noble, Tim and I did our version of “shaking off the creepies,” where we toss around our hair and hands and even our feet and pretend to spit on the ground and then shiver all over. “God that was awful,” I said. And he said, “Well, I heard some bad words about the ‘back side’ but at least we didn’t hear too much about the ‘front side.’” He then told all his Catholic school friends that we went to see the movie together and he was the one who had to get us to leave. Great.

I had brought Tim out another time some years ago with tickets my dad had bought us for the Bemidji Playhouse version of Cabaret. I was just so happy to go into town after a week of too much togetherness at the lake cabin that I forgot Tim was only eight years old and the subject matter wasn’t right for him. Those Bemidji actors fully embraced the caberet set and came out in G-strings and pasties and shook and straddled mightily for all of us in the first rows. Tim leaned over with that infamous pale face and wide eyes, and whispered to me, “These must be the bad girls.”

But these are the lighter moments. There have been other, more serious missteps, including the time I let my daughter play with the kids whose dad owned a Rottweiller or when I lost her at the Mall of America. Yep. You can imagine the first scenario. She has the scar on her leg to prove that one. And the other: me waiting at the exit of the Camp Snoopy log chute and Megan never stepping out because they had refused her entrance when she didn’t measure up for the ride. She had to walk back against those waiting in line (I had agreed to let her go down the third time alone and didn't realize she wasn't tall enough) and when she came out of the faux cave she couldn’t find me anywhere. I was at the exit with my eyes glued on every oncoming log rider, taking second and third looks when I couldn’t spot her, and then finally racing over to the camera box to scan the tourist pictures it displayed for anyone who wanted to document the “fun,” seeing if I had somehow missed her. I was as frantic as Michelle Pfeiffer in The Deep End of the Ocean and couldn’t believe I had messed this up. I could not leave that log ride. I was sure she was going to finally come down, hands up in the air, wet from the log sprays and exuberant from all the other screaming kids. I finally gave up my post and traced my daughter to the “Lost and Found.” When she saw me all she could say was, “How could you LOSE me?”

I’m not sure they will remember all my stupid tricks. We can sit around the Thanksgiving table recounting them, as we often have, but I never forget to add a little silent p.s. during those times we actually give thanks and praise at the table: “God help me keep this family safe from harm. Please help me not FAIL them. Please, please, please. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”