Dad Post #222

Megan is only nine years old. She’s still a mini. I pray the next half-decade crawls, because at the end of it Megan will be intolerable, unsafe, and inappropriately dressed. Or so I’m told. “Teenagerhood is pandemonium, especially with girls,” seasoned parents tell me. “Brace yourself,” they say. “Gray hair’s a-comin’,” they mutter. "It's rough," they warn, and some have the scars to prove it. But, alas, it’s nothing newfangled or unendurable I tell myself; to be human is to overstep as a teenager, and teeter on the precipice of self-destruction. Kids wonder and wander and learn. Some touch the stove. I survived being a teenage dumbass and so did you. Besides, Megan will be perfect. I’m not worried. That, of course, is mockingly untrue and facetious – I am the most anxious person I know – although a few more points are in order:

1) Megan’s clothes are already tight as paint, but that’s because she outgrows them in a blink, and while some ensemble pieces come from Justice or Aeropostale (or whatever’s cool for a heartbeat), the rest rely on Target and 30% off at Kohl’s.

2) We’ll talk openly, candidly, firmly, respectfully about sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. And that will be enough. Sure.

3) Jeanette and I won’t tolerate bullshit. Rigidity often backfires, so it’s in God’s hands anyway, but talking tough sounds cool and hypocrisy is irrelevant.

4) We’ll be present and approachable and empathic as parents. We’ll listen before judging. We'll remember our steps through the same minefields. And we’ll temper the merciless sensationalism perpetrated by all mass media. Life is a stage, of sorts, but it’s not scripted or edited or unceasingly dramatic. It’s not fabulous and utterly unfabulous in alternating, explosive extremes. It’s much richer and fuller than that, actually.

5) My hair is already graying and falling out, which is why I like Jason Statham. Michael Jordan and Bruce Willis were also prematurely bald before gleaming, shaved heads became their permanent look.