Oh, just mine? Figures. I didn’t have the best examples in the family as a child, but everyone knows right from wrong. Still, it’s not like I haven’t ordered water at Taco Bell and “accidentally” let some lemonade fall into the cup while I poured my water.
Okay okay … so maybe I’ve also let a little bit of Pepsi Max spill into the cup. But only as far as where the lid goes.
One kid of mine snagged a soccer ball off a field where a team I coached suffered a brutal loss. Retribution, I guess? Another kid of mine loaded her purse with hot cocoa packets during a stay at a Hampton Inn.
Track races. Pennant races. Racial races. Yin and yang, alpha and omega. My noble ventures as dad and coach – tempered by those thoughts/actions/decisions that make me forever mortal.
The 11-year-old burping in the middle of Taco Bell.
The dad, only marginally embarrassed. More proud of the effort … wanting to coach her, even. “From the diaphragm, Marie. Project! Belch for that person in the last row, dear. GIVE IT LIFE!” All those endearing comments on my columns about my wonderful fathering?