Perils of Dads with Pre-Teen Boys

At the risk of sounding presumptuous and narcissistic, I gotta admit that I'm a pretty smart guy. I mean, sure I've made plenty of dumb decisions, mortifying my mother and sister, and even placing myself dead-smack in the direct path of eminent danger. Like the time I put one hand in a sink full of water, and placed the other on the washing machine while it was running. WARNING--NEVER TRY THIS.

But I'm nearly 43 now! Times back then were quite different. Hell, back in my day (why can I say this now? WHY??),  kids' biggest source of gut-wrenching shame was disappointing the adults in our lives.

I mean, to hear the words, "Now you know, YOU know better," or even worse, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," coming from a mom, dad, grandparent or any other adult in our families could crumble the marble facade of the hardest brother.

So, now my own son of 12 years, 120 pounds and 5'6" has the nerve to be basking in the explosive metamorphosis of puberty before my very eyes and ears. And the nose, God Yes, the nose! Help'meh, Lawd!

Now I can handle the mirror madness; I mean he does have my crowd-paralyzing good looks, which, of course, I had to tone down so that Tyson and Boris could get their pieces of the pie. No, seriously, I was kind of hot! 

I can handle the exasperated exhales in response to simple questions like, "How was your day, son? You hungry?"

I can handle the hourly flexing episodes to show me how defined his abs are becoming.

"You see'em, Dad? Yeah, son, they coming in! I got a two-pack," he gloats. I hurdle my urges to say, "What abs, dude? WHAT ABS? Oh "those" are abs? I thought that was dirt from you skipping baths for two days! (or that make-up Mariah Carey used to pretend she had abs, lol.)

But, instead, I simply respond, "Yup, I see them. Drink more water and cut out that candy and you gon' be killing it! And don't ever call me 'son' again, son. I earn this title." 

This, of course, is because I love him more than any word could describe, and because I want him to know that whatever he wants, he already has!

I can take the occasional skipping of a bath or brushing of teeth, even. Just don't have dirty fingernails; I hate dirty nails! No matter how clean you are, dirty nails ALWAYS make you look, uh, dirty.

What I'm having difficulty navigating, though, are those senseless lies (like I'm dumb as a mailbox), and the pubescent boy-brain (think of Theo Huxtable, that's all)!

Argh! Pubescent boy-brain sucks!

Like that time when the dude with the wrinkled scalp walked in front of our car on Pennsylvania Avenue. My son's jaw dropped, and I knew right away that his mouth was in labor and about to deliver a comment worthy of those annoying "SMHs" on Facebook. He crumbled his brow, and out it came; "Dad, is that his brain?"

After a blank stare that kept me at the green light long enough to get a few honks, I thought to myself, "You mean that skin with the hair growing out it? That brown stuff covering his cranium? HIS SCALP, SON??? No, that's just a wrinkled scalp."

Or that time he cut that patch of hair out of his head. Why? Why would you do that?

Or like last night!

I woke up at 3 am to pee. (It's becoming nearly impossible to hold it now that I'm in my 40s. Even have to keep a bottle or cup in the car. Darn shame.) I walked to the bathroom, where we have black and white tiled flooring; yup, the kind that will kill you if you fall on it.

I'm barefoot, so as I step on the marble rectangle separating the hallway and the bathroom, my foot slides a little.

I kneel down to rub my finger across the marble to find that it is covered in oil; BABY OIL! I go into the hallway, and notice footprints of baby oil leading from the bathroom to "his" bedroom.

Like any crazy, black dad, I thought, "What the hell?"

Then I think some more, and it hits me, "This clown tried to prank me!"

Hell, I've seen Pranked and Prank My Momma! I've even seen it with him! A better prank for me is jumping out of the closet, and I don't even like that nonsense. But he was trying to "get me!"

My nerves were rattled, and I wanted to wake him up immediately.

Dilemma: Do I wake him or let him sleep and discuss this before school. This was a hard one, because I was pissed!

In my head I saw vivid, painful images of myself falling and cracking my back, being forced to wear one of those scoliosis casts I successfully avoided throughout my youth.

I saw my partner slipping, breaking his neck and being forced to wear that white thing around his neck; the black folks had to wear when we pretended to be hurt in car accidents, hitting therapy for 8 weeks for a measly $3,000.

I let him sleep, but when he awoke. I saw fire!

Our house rule is that we own our actions with no grudges. Take the consequence with honor and do better going forward. The conversation was as follows:

Me: Wake up, Son. Time for school. And we need to discuss the oil. Son, sup with the oil?

Son: Uhhhh...

Me: Son, do-not-lie! Why did you do it?

Son: Uhhhh...

Me: WHY?!

Son: Uhhh...I don't know. 
(He notices my eyes bulging out of my head.) 
Because I wanted to?

Me: Oh, hell naw! Boy, you better come stronger than that, because that one is gonna get us all put away.

What is the reason??

Son: That is it?

Me: Really? So you tried to hurt me? Did you try to make me fall? DID YOU TRY TO PRANK ME???

Son: (with a shocked look on his face and tears in his eyes-he had mastered this, so I wasn't buying it.) That is the reason. I didn't try to hurt y'all.

Me: Okay! I'm dumb! HELLO NEIGHBORS. WAKE UP! I'M DUMB! You stand your butt right here and DO NOT move until you can give me a legitimate reason.

(He stands there for 20 minutes with the Theo Huxtable face.)

Son: Dad?

Me: What, boy?

Son: I put oil on the floor because I was pushing Harpo (Our Yorkie-pooh) across the floor and I wanted him to slide.

Me: Huh? You were sliding the dog across the bathroom floor?

Son: Yes. I wasn't trying to hurt you.

Me: (Blank stare)

Uhhhhh...

Son, you could have just told me that. Next time, clean up that damn oil.