A Parent's Guide to Having Fun

"Dad, can I play Shoot Osama after we do Skeeball and bumper cars?" My son has big eyes and as I peer into them, I'm completely unsure how to respond to his question. Do I go stern or soft here? "Daddy, can I have cotton candy? Pleeeease?"

My daughter is positively purring. She's nine and knows that pouting lips can work wonders for her sweet tooth. This isn't fair. I came out to Coney Island for some fresh air at the beach and a few rides in the sun. It's quickly turned into feasting on junk food while shooting international terrorist puppets with water guns. Is that my idea of a weekend entertainment package? I don't know. I feel like I'm getting relentlessly squeezed as my kids put my good dad/bad dad self-image to the test. What's a father to do?

I'm a responsible adult - at least I have been in the eleven years since my son was born. As their mom is frequently away on business, I'm the one who more often than not maintains our codes of conduct. That means bedtime on time with no buckling under (and no more episodes of Full House), a healthy diet at mealtime (a distinct challenge as my daughter won't eat anything green) and limited amounts of junk food (ignoring their complaints as we scooter through our neighborhood). Clothes cleaned, hair washed, fingernails trimmed - I can be a drill sergeant when I have to be.

But then, inevitably, I always wind up asking myself the Big Question: Homework and chores and cello lessons are all fine and good but aren't children supposed to have fun? Just for the sake of having fun? And isn't bending the rules an essential part of the equation?

When I look back at my own childhood I immediately remember my Uncle Walter. He looked like a watermelon dressed in a leisure suit, but he could change an ordinary summer evening from a Norman Rockwell painting into an adventure worthy of the Ponderosa.

When I was a kid, our family visited my grandparents every August. The New Jersey Turnpike seemed to go on forever. My father did the driving while my mother screamed directions. My sister and I fought all the way because we were brother and sister and we thought that if we bugged our parents enough we would get there faster. We were dumb but it was a special, summertime dumbness.

Every evening was the same ritual. After kissing everyone goodnight, it was time for my sister and me to go to sleep. We were put in separate bedrooms for our own protection. While the grownups sat in the living room, watching the news on TV, I'd pretend to be blissfully asleep. But I was secretly waiting for him to come - my hero, Uncle Walter.

No matter what time it was, I knew he would show up. Sure enough, before the last baseball score flashed on the screen, I would hear the front door swing open, and his leather-soled shoes squeaking across the foyer as he sauntered into the living room. By then, I was quietly out of bed and nearing the top of the stairs.

"Day-vod!" his voice boomed. "Where's Day-vod?"

"Uncle Walter, it's kind of late," my parents said.

"Walter, it's late already," my Pop-pop added.

"Walter! Don't you know how late it is?!" my Nana shrieked. As his sister, it was her right to protest the loudest. And it was late.
But Uncle Walter's crooked smile charmed them all at once.

"It's a perfect night for ice cream, don't you think? Day-vod!"

I'd be down the stairs in a flash, grabbing Uncle Walter' hand and dragging him out the front door, ignoring my parent's protests, my grandparent's surprise, and the fact that I was still wearing my Superman pajamas. We were two men on a mission.

I'd climb into the front seat of Uncle Walter's Cadillac convertible and with the top down we'd take off, with me standing tall and his big arm across my knees holding me like a seat belt, heading straight through town for Dairy Queen Ice Cream.
Who cares how late it is? Uncle Walter knows what makes me tick.

"It's a perfect night for ice cream, don't you think?" he'd say to me later, as we sat in the car, feasting beneath the stars in a parking lot paradise. I'd nod like a bobble-head, drunk on my favorite double-vanilla cone with extra chocolate sprinkles. There wasn't much else to say. We were two satisfied guys in one extremely satisfying automobile.

And now, 44 years later, knowing that what's practical and what's fun aren't always the same thing, I'm enjoying the struggle to make the right decisions for all of us - knowing when to toss out the rulebook with my children if the moment seems right.
I'll take them out of school early on the first snow of winter, for example, knowing that a fresh storm means perfect sledding in the park. I'll line the driveway with fireworks on the Fourth of July, even if that means pleading ignorance with the local police if they happen to pay a visit.

Sometimes I'll stretch my budget to rent a convertible with my kids for no other reason than taking them for a spin and an after-hours snack. I remember the joy of "a perfect night for ice cream," and bottling the thrill I felt myself back on those summer evenings in Norristown, Pennsylvania with my dear Uncle Walter.

Whenever I uncap that bottle now and see the joy on my children's faces I'm glad to rediscover why rules are meant to be broken. With seat belts fastened and the volume all the way up.