Father's Secrets

Parenting would be so much easier if kids could find it within themselves to understand that we are trying to teach them right from wrong by our own experiences in life. It is our burden, however, to immediately be labeled by our children as "unfair" or "old farts who just don't get it". What they do not realize is that we tell them what to do and what not to do because, for the most part, we have "been there and done that".

There is also another side of the proverbial coin. Some instances arise that we, as parents who were once children, would rather avoid. I do not want to have to look my two boys in the eyes and tell them that they should not participate in belching contests with a group of friend after eating a big meal. Yes, the whole male adolescent belching competition is a disgusting, vulgar activity that should be quelled for the sake of manners, (and laughed about when the kids are out of sight), but more important, stopped before eventual humiliation plants its dirty seed. I do not want to have to tell my boys of how, when I was close to their age, I was "challenging" for the big-burp championship of the neighborhood.

I trained hard that day. Three coney-dogs, a sack of fries, a snack cake and four, rapidly chugged cans of Coca-cola churned in my belly as I stepped inside the circle of competitors. For the sake of winning the title, I rerouted my air intake supply, taking in oxygen but bypassing the natural route to my lungs and detouring the O₂ molecules into my belly to mingle with the three coney-dogs, sack of fries, snack cake and the four, rapidly chugged cans of Coca-Cola. Patiently, I waited my turn, listening to the deep rooted, moisture-rich sounds that exuded from the finest athletes of digestion that this sport had ever produced. I nervously looked around at the eyes of the envious male participants and the disgusted faces of young girls who watched only for reasons that rubberneckers who stare at accident scenes would understand.

Finally it was my turn. I sucked down three more swallows of air into my guts. I jumped up and down three or four times, trying to stir things up in my stomach that much more. I stepped into the middle of the circle, opened the passageway from my belly to the top of my throat, threw my shoulders back, craned out my neck and the weakest belch of all time escaped my mouth - along with the three coney-dogs, sack of fries, snack cake and four, rapidly chugged cans of Coca-Cola that, moments ago, was to be my ticket to burping immortality. The crowd of onlookers became suddenly silent - the lack of sound, deafening. What was to be cheers of adoration from the spectators and competitors alike, became, at first, low groans of disgust and then loud, jeering laughter. I was left to stand alone, looking down at the meal that had left me, knowing that, forever, I was to be known as "The Great 'tater" , (as in Regurgitator).

I hope beyond hope that my sons will never learn of this infamous episode of their old man's life - not until they have thirteen year old boys and are dealing with the challenges that come with raising adolescents.

(Come to think of it, I may have to tell them why they should never use Comet Cleanser on their faces - even though I have not had acne trouble since I was fifteen years old!)