My Son, My Nemesis

Into the eerie silence which had settled over the entire shopping centre, I said slowly in my most menacing voice, “I saw it first.”

Sometimes parenting is about being the bigger man, not just in height, weight and cup size, but in my words and actions as well. And sometimes I find this harder than others, although I usually get there.

This was one of those times.

We were in the toiletries aisle in the local Coles and I had the most awesome toothbrush I’ve ever seen in my hot little hands. We weren’t here to buy me a toothbrush, it was Master9’s which had accidentally been dropped into the cat’s kitty litter. Lucky bastard.

My nine year old son stood his ground.

“But you don’t need a toothbrush. You have one at home,” he countered, his voice level. He extended his hand, palm up. “Hand it over, Dad,” he added, squinting in a way Clint Eastwood would rush to a mirror to try and emulate, “or I’ll tell Mum.”

“You wouldn’t,” I said.

He didn’t answer. He just kept his hand outstretched and raised an eyebrow in a ‘try me’ fashion.

He so would.

But still I wouldn’t relinquish my pretty. I looked at the row upon row of toothbrush options: Dora, Peppa Pig, Angry Birds. But I saw nothing with which I might tempt him. Until…

“Oooo, One Direction,” I said, indicating a long, sad, white box.

“Really?” said Master9, excitement rising in his voice. “One Direction? Where?”

“Here!” I nearly shouted, pulling it off the shelf and holding it out to him.

He didn’t move to take it. He just shook his head in disbelief that I thought he’d really want such a lame toothbrush.

“Not a chance,” he said. But then he offered me a olive branch in the form of a really good suggestion. “Why don’t we buy two BatBrushes?”

“One each! Brilliant!” I exclaimed. But even as I reached gleefully for a second BatBrush the practical part of my brain was telling me exactly why we can’t have two in the house – neither of us would know whose was whose.

Which was when that stupid practical part of my brain, which incidentally sounds just like my wife, told me to man up and be a dad. I took a deep breath and held out the BatBrush to my son.

“It’s okay. You can have it,” I said, feigning good humour. And I admit, it felt good to be the bigger man, cup size and all. “But just so you know,” I added as we walked towards the checkout, “you suck.”

Ah well, I tried.

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“Raising a family on little more than laughs.”