Who do I think I am? What am I doing here? As it turns out, I don’t know the first thing about being a parent, so it’s time to hand these kids over to the only person – other than their mother, mind you – who is qualified.
C, they’re all yours.
It’s already been documented just how helpful, at 10-years-old, he can be when his parents are out all night at a rock-n-roll show.
Last Friday night we had friends over for our weekly Cocktail Hour. We were all sitting outside and at some point GK required a Band-Aid. She … fell down, or something. I don’t know. Anyway, C went inside and came back with the bandage and a tube of Neosporin. As Kristy was quick to point out to him, “Daddy wouldn’t even know where the Neosporin was.” And she’s right!
Then, this morning, I put the kids in the car, had to reposition the car seats after yesterday’s Sam’s Club run, and then dart back in the house for something. Halfway downtown, C informed me that GK wasn’t buckled into her seat [this is the first Big Mama has heard of this]. I had JP buckle her in as I slowed to 20 mph or so.
What good am I as a parent? I can reach the upper kitchen cabinets and I hold a valid Tennessee driver’s license. Outside of those assets, my 10-year-old can handle whatever may come up. It’s humbling to know that 10 years of fatherhood can be replaced by a stepladder and $1.25 in bus fare.