W3WN
03-31-2012, 10:22 PM
I thought I was prepared. I thought I was ready.
Having gone through the teenage years with a son (OK, step-son), facing the same challenge, 15 years later, with a teenage daughter... I knew some things would be different, but overall, nothing I couldn't handle.
Hoo Boy, was I wrong.
Let me set the scene:
Little Miss Field Day was performing in the High School play, Seussical (the Musical), Thursday evening through tonight. The Boss volunteered to help with the concessions, so I went Thursday, and just took a bunch of pictures. Same tonight. But Friday night, I was supposed to go see W3WH & help him with a software issue, so I was "off duty."
Well, Bill had something come up at the last minute, shortly after they left, so I ended up with a free evening. Considering the weather forecast for later in the evening, I decided to take advantage and... mow the lawn. I know, not exciting, but I figured I'd get it out of the way, and have more operating time on Sunday instead.
So: It's now about 20 after 6, I'm in the middle of the back yard covered in sweat and grass stains (I was also pulling weeks and dandelions and such), and my cell phone rings. It's Jessie. In a total panic.
"Dad! Dad! WHERE ARE YOU!!!!" (Found out later she'd called the house phone first, of course I didn't hear it out in the yard)
"Ah, in the backyard, mowing the grass. What's wrong?"
Her voice changes slightly... relieved that I'm home, but still in a panic... "Dad! I forgot something important! You have to bring it to me NOW!"
"What? What did you forget?"
"MY STRAPLESS BRA!!!!!!!!!!!!"
THIS she forgets?
"OK, no problem, where is it?"
"Top of my laundry basket!"
"No problem. Let me grab it, I'll be there in 5 minutes.: (fortunately, the school is a mile & a half away)
Go into her room, grab the bra on top, put it in a plastic bag, run to the car, drive to school. She's waiting on the sidewalk, roll down the window, hand her the bag, get a big "THANKS DAD!" and I'm on my way.
Of course it wasn't that easy... not a minute goes by, the phone rings again.
"DAD!!!"
"OK, what's wrong?"
"YOU BROUGHT THE WRONG BRA!! THIS IS MY SPORTS BRA!!"
"You said the one on top!"
"I meant the other one!"
10 minutes later, I'm back at school for the Great Bra Exchange. In the parking lot, in full view of parents & relatives who are coming in for the performance. Still covered in sweat and grass clippings and dirty shirt & jeans. Great. Just great.
Meanwhile, I've attracted the attention of a Mt. Lebanon cop, who tails me from the school to the borough line. And all the time, I'm thinking "don't pull me over, don't pull me over..." that and "how the hell am I going to explain why a teenager's bra is sitting on my front seat?"
... my son would sometimes forget something... baseball glove, pen, keys, money. But underwear? Not once did he ever call in a panic because he forgot his jock strap.
I didn't believe it before. Now I do. Sons are easier on the nerves than daughters.
... and she turns 16 in July and becomes eligible for a driver's license. And can't wait to drive. There goes the last "pepper" in my hair...
Having gone through the teenage years with a son (OK, step-son), facing the same challenge, 15 years later, with a teenage daughter... I knew some things would be different, but overall, nothing I couldn't handle.
Hoo Boy, was I wrong.
Let me set the scene:
Little Miss Field Day was performing in the High School play, Seussical (the Musical), Thursday evening through tonight. The Boss volunteered to help with the concessions, so I went Thursday, and just took a bunch of pictures. Same tonight. But Friday night, I was supposed to go see W3WH & help him with a software issue, so I was "off duty."
Well, Bill had something come up at the last minute, shortly after they left, so I ended up with a free evening. Considering the weather forecast for later in the evening, I decided to take advantage and... mow the lawn. I know, not exciting, but I figured I'd get it out of the way, and have more operating time on Sunday instead.
So: It's now about 20 after 6, I'm in the middle of the back yard covered in sweat and grass stains (I was also pulling weeks and dandelions and such), and my cell phone rings. It's Jessie. In a total panic.
"Dad! Dad! WHERE ARE YOU!!!!" (Found out later she'd called the house phone first, of course I didn't hear it out in the yard)
"Ah, in the backyard, mowing the grass. What's wrong?"
Her voice changes slightly... relieved that I'm home, but still in a panic... "Dad! I forgot something important! You have to bring it to me NOW!"
"What? What did you forget?"
"MY STRAPLESS BRA!!!!!!!!!!!!"
THIS she forgets?
"OK, no problem, where is it?"
"Top of my laundry basket!"
"No problem. Let me grab it, I'll be there in 5 minutes.: (fortunately, the school is a mile & a half away)
Go into her room, grab the bra on top, put it in a plastic bag, run to the car, drive to school. She's waiting on the sidewalk, roll down the window, hand her the bag, get a big "THANKS DAD!" and I'm on my way.
Of course it wasn't that easy... not a minute goes by, the phone rings again.
"DAD!!!"
"OK, what's wrong?"
"YOU BROUGHT THE WRONG BRA!! THIS IS MY SPORTS BRA!!"
"You said the one on top!"
"I meant the other one!"
10 minutes later, I'm back at school for the Great Bra Exchange. In the parking lot, in full view of parents & relatives who are coming in for the performance. Still covered in sweat and grass clippings and dirty shirt & jeans. Great. Just great.
Meanwhile, I've attracted the attention of a Mt. Lebanon cop, who tails me from the school to the borough line. And all the time, I'm thinking "don't pull me over, don't pull me over..." that and "how the hell am I going to explain why a teenager's bra is sitting on my front seat?"
... my son would sometimes forget something... baseball glove, pen, keys, money. But underwear? Not once did he ever call in a panic because he forgot his jock strap.
I didn't believe it before. Now I do. Sons are easier on the nerves than daughters.
... and she turns 16 in July and becomes eligible for a driver's license. And can't wait to drive. There goes the last "pepper" in my hair...