Like the author, I, too, was kicked out the door in the morning and told to go have fun. My mother even told me to stay out of trouble, for all the good that did me.
But I didn't grow up poor. I did, however, have a most pleasant childhood, living and playing in my own little bubble, sometimes separate from reality. Like the author, my Dad taught me to ride my two-wheeler and bought me my first BB gun, as well as taught me how to fish.
"I know things are different," this author says. Umm, yeah. They sure are.
"Wouldn't it be cool if you got a BB gun for Christmas, son," I remember asking my son one year.
"What," my eight year-old son exclaimed. "Do you want me dead? You know how dangerous those things are, dad? I'm gonna have to tell mom..."
I initially tried to teach him how to ride a bike without training wheels.
"I know how this works, dad," he told me. "You hold the bike up and let go when I'm not paying attention and I just start riding. I'm not falling for that one."
As I remember, his grandmother actually taught him how to ride his two-wheeler. Thank you, Ginga!
The author went so far to say that dads should teach their kids how to fish. Yep. I attempted that one, too.
One of my first attempts led to the "liberating" of all my minnows back into the lake. Believe it or not, that was my four-year-old son's choice of words.
I broached the subject with my son a few years later, getting a completely different response.
"That minnow is not going to survive being impaled upon that hook, dad," he said. "So, basically, you're murdering one fish with the hopes of murdering a second fish. Where is the logic behind that?"
Logic aside, I still manage to enjoy fishing, despite my son's bleak outlook.
Maybe I should start a new blog. It'll be all about parenting. In fact, I already have a name for the new blog -- Thoughts on How Life Is.
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