Monday, May 16, 2005

Yet another example of my parenting skills.

This weekend I took my questionable parenting style to yet another level. I was supposed to go out this weekend, but as my previous post details I was not able to go. We were heading out and had already bought the beer/alcohol we were going to take with to the surprise party. The hostess throwing the party had asked the guests to BYOB. She didn’t think she’d be able to squirrel away enough for everyone with out tipping off her husband.

So Sunday, with my wife and Clone feeling better I decided to help myself to the beer. They were feeling alright, but not good enough to do anything, and that beer needed to be drunk. It would have been remiss of my duties as man to leave that much beer lying around not being drunk. All the trammels of my being able to enjoy this golden nectar where cast aside when my wife advised she no longer felt ill.

So there I sat on the couch watching movies and drinking my 16 oz cans of beer. The local store had a sale going on the Miller Lite Rusty Wallace cans. It was cheaper for me to purchase the six-pack of 16 oz cans then to get the standard six-pack of 12 oz cans. Now with these bigger cans comes the added problem of them warming up faster. I looked around and grabbed the first can cozy I could find. Of course, I looked at it after I started drinking; it was a Boy Scout can cozy. It had the logo and the motto, “Be prepared” written on it. So there I am sitting on my couch drinking a beer in a NASCAR can being held by a Boy Scout can cozy in a t-shirt and underwear. (Yea, I can hear the screams from that mental image) I know, I was pretty white trash on Sunday. I did not care. Whom did I have to impress? The family that spent the previous day with their heads in a toilet being sick.

I’m sitting on the couch watching the remake of Ocean’s 11. Clone brings over his glass of juice and climbs up onto the couch with me. He sees my drink, points to it and says, “Dadda, water”. I look him in the eye and say, “Beer”. He replies with, “bear”. I tell him, “Not bear. Beer!” He understands, points to my can and very proudly says, “Beer”. I smile and congratulate him on saying it right. Then he tells me, “Dadda, I want beer.” I just point to his glass and tell him he has that to drink. So he holds up his glass and proudly states, “I drink beer.” He then empties the contents of his glass, mostly down his throat, some down the front of him. He turns to me and says, “Dadda! I want more beer.” It was at this point that I realized that I have confused Clone and he thinks any drink is beer. Eh, that’ll mortify my mother, it’s all good.

So for the next 30 minutes he keeps talking about beer. The kid just would not shut up about more beer and drinking beer and wanting beer. Nothing would quiet him; he just kept on talking about it. If I tried to ignore him, he’d only start yelling louder and louder about beer. Finally, to get him to be quiet, I acknowledged him with a raising of my can and said, “Here’s to you.” He then repeated the same gesture and words back to me.

From then on, before he took a drink, he would raise his glass and say, “Here’s to you!” Out of reflex, I would instantly take a drink. Clone, thinking this was great fun and a game, kept doing it over and over. I ended up emptying two of those 16 oz cans in less than 20 minutes. (Yea, Pavlov’s dog has nothing on me!) It finally dawns on me what is going on. My 2 year old is sitting on the couch next to me talking about drinking his beer, raising a glass of his “beer” (AKA apple juice) and getting me to drink with him by giving a brief toast. This has struck me as insanely amusing.

My wife on the other hand is mortified by what she has observed. She is convinced Clone will ask my mother today for a beer. At which point my mother WILL blame her for not taking control of me and curbing my genetic disposition to alcohol. Thus, it is my wife’s fault that my 2 year old wants to be a drunk.

To me, the whole thing is funny. I can just see Clone saddle up to the table, slap his hand down and order my mother to bring him and his friends beer. My mother will try to get him to say juice, but the damage will be done. Clone and his friends will all be sitting at the table chanting, “Beer! Beer! Beer!” My Mother, all exasperated after tying repeatedly to get them to settle down and call it juice, finally breaks down and tells them it’s beer. Clone and his gang are happy again and are able to get back to there plan of knocking over the bank so they can get their much-coveted legos back. My mother will add another entry into her, “Why my son is going to hell” journal.

I am such a good parent, in that Al Bundy kind of way.