April 1, 2007  

My son, Damien

I’m searching for the 666 birthmark on my 3-year-old son’s scalp.

Last week, during a moment of attending to our other kids at our neighborhood park my wife turned to find said son throwing rocks at a homeless man. Let that sink in for a moment. Throwing rocks at an indigent citizen. Now, as she explains it, he was merely throwing rocks that she had previously told him to put down and they were going in the direction of the homeless man. (And the man was not in the park but on the sidewalk.) But I think it is more insidious than that. I think my son merely scouted the terrain and assessed the most high-odds target. A person who was, let’s say, not moving so quickly and was encumbered with the trappings of someone who lives with what he carries. An easy mark. He was scolded for throwing rocks at any person, but this was beyond reproach. Not that he knows homeless from not. But still. He then had the gall to tell the guy that he looked like Santa Claus. On hearing this story, I resisted every urge to tell my son that this is what Santa does when he’s not building toys at the North Pole. Perhaps my dastardly genes have caused this after all.

Then, later in the week, when my sister was over with her son who is potty-training, my son decided to slink off with the plastic training pot and take a crap in it. What the hell, I’m sure he thought. Unknown to anyone, he left his transaction in it (he’s fully trained on a regular toilet, mind you) and then proceeded to hide the pot. My wife smelled dung but could not find it until she uncovered the trainer and lifted the lid. Clearly the work of a closet pooper.

The coup de grace came tonight. The whole family was out to dinner at a local bar/restaurant. Son was “playing” a video game (quarterless) when a waitress walked by. He stuck his hand out and grabbed her butt! She turned to us and said “Did you see that?! He grabbed my ass!” I stifled the urge to laugh before making him apologize. Later I asked her if that was the first time that had happened to her. No, of course not; she works Saturday nights. But I am quite sure she’s never been fondled by a three-year-old.

What the hell is happening? Where is he learning this stuff? I don’t pelt the dispossessed, stash poop, or fondle women who are not my wife. Is it television? If so, Hi-5 has a lot of explaining to do.

One response to “My son, Damien”

  1. Darren says :

    I have a friend who is a primary school teacher, her class is 4 and 5 year olds. During her first week as a teacher, they were doing some activity and she was vaguely aware of some of them brushing against her legs but thought nothing of it.
    Two of the boys in her class were fighting and when she asked what they were arguing about, it turned out the debate was over which one of them had put his hand higher up her leg. To embarrass her a little further, the other chap piped up with, “I did miss and your legs are all prickly”.
    They didn’t really realise what they were doing, but she reckons she got groped less when she worked in a bar during college.