Hi! <Waves>

Funny and honest tales from a made-to-work Dad of three, wobbling, graying, and laughing his way through parenthood. Armed to the teeth with Nerf guns, full of pie, fighting a chocolate addiction, but genuinely honoured to be at least half of Team Parents (yay!).

1 July 2016

My Scooter Shame...

I was doing so well that day.
I had put extra effort into spending fun time with Boy8, and was cashing in on it.
Then I did something dumb... Again.

<Bangs head against screen> Why do I do these things! <Bang bang>
<Misses screen and headbutts cup of tea>
OH NO! <Stands and gets tea all over croutch>
Arghghh!!! HOT!!!
<Sits back on spillage> <Accepts wetness>
Why? <To world in general>
Brainzilla: 'Because you're a lemon'
Ta. Uh-huh... <Nods>.. well... at least... I go well with sugar...
Brainzilla: <Gives me a look. Somehow>

I was rocking the Dadding (real word).
At least by my own definitions I was. I was home from work a grand total of ten minutes. In that time I bounced BabyBoy1 around, listened to Miss5's endless stories, and told Boy8 the good news. Rather drive to his laser sword fighting club. We we're scooting.
Hooray was the Boy8 response.

(Yeah, yeah, nice Luckdragon…
But can we make this story quick they open in fifteen minutes?)

Boy8's Cow and Goat racing club isn't far from our house.
I enjoy taking him. But I bloody hate having to get the car out, drive there, wait in traffic, tight road, no you go, no go on, park, wait in traffic, drive back, traffic, traffic, no you go, no go on, OH! Please! Just drive!, you go, park.
It's a fifteen minute round trip of fun. I can walk it in ten.
I like driving. BROOOOOMMMM and all that. But this is a short, annoying, painful journey.
So once the weather was better, the plan was to walk / cycle / scoot.
And the other day I finally remembered the weather was finally good. Enough.

The scoot was great fun.
I have my own scooter it’s got flame all over it. But scooting on your own as adult is always a bit weird. You get looks.
Scooting with your kids gets you smiles and cheeky comments.
A police woman called that journey 'that's one way to exercise'.
That kind of thing.

Boy8 is a fast scooter now.
I can just about keep up. It's definitely easier to scoot at eight. As at 30-Lots I constantly worry I am going fall off and explode into a fireball look a right muppet. I might even hurt myself. Ow. Or break something. OW!
Boy8 worries not.
Any kerb above 2cm is a potential terrible crash for me.
Boy8 does tricks over kerbs.

The drop off was uneventful.
Except one of Boy8 mates, that I know, appeared.
I jokingly pretended to slam his face into a table. Classic Dad humour.
As I had no idea what to say to actually say to him and wanted to be cool.
It's was laughs all round.

I left and tried to coolly unfold my scooter and scoot off.
It fell apart in my hands, and clattered to the floor. Bums.
I fight the urge to just run and hide. And Instead I put my scooter, now called Brutus, back together and scoot off.
Then because I'm now scooting on my own, sans le Garcon8, someone shouts at me as I pass...

ScooterAgeist: 'Aren't you too old to be scooting?'
Not yet! <Sticks up fingers> <Tries to look cool but is wobbling a lot>

I get home hot and sweaty.
Needing to wash. My leg hurts from balancing on one leg, and I'm very hungry.
Still Dad win!
Scooted Boy8 to his club which he loved! And didn't use the car.

Well that’s me tale done... you can all go now...
Yes, you too, madam at the back... with the beard... <Squints> Oh hi Mum! <Waves>
<Claps> Shooo shooo <More clapping> Go home!
Brainzilla: 'Tell them what you did next'
I don't want to... <Picks at the wall>
Brainzilla: 'Tell THEM!' <Shakes fist>
Brainzilla: 'You leave me no choice...'
<Slaps self> HEY! Stop that! OW!  <Slaps self> Fine. I'll tell...

As my old man knee was hurting. I took my bike to pick up Boy8.
I felt nice to on my bike. Safer.
I had, like a genius, left his scooter at the club.
It’s hard to carry anything when you scoot or cycle. Let alone a scooter.
So I grabbed tut scooter and found Boy8.
He was happy, had a good time, was ready to go.
But his mate. The one from earlier. The one I know.
He was there too...

Mate: Is that your scooter?
Boy8: Yeah... <BatEgo sensors activated>
Mate: That’s a baby’s scooter <Rhymes it with YOU SUCK>

The little [INSERT OWN WORD]...
I watched Boy8 visibly shrink from that dig. It was horrible.
He was so happy and full of confidence one moment. The next deflated like a balloon at a hedgehog wrestling party (common our way).
I stay calm and answer on behalf of my stunned, and hurt son...

What a mean thing to say! Fooooor shame
Ohh! That's one less Christmas I've gotta write next year! <Is fuming>
WAHHHHH!!! I’m telling!
I’m Batmam...
Face? Meet fist!
Just a small town girl… living in a LONELY world...
No it’s not (ZING! In your FACE!)
<I am ignored>
Mate: Where’s your trick wheel? That is a babies scooter...

(‘No. That’s not my scooter…’)

We say sweary BYE to his mate.
I pick up Boy8's crest which has fallen to the floor. There’s some mud on it, a bit of gum. But, quick polish, <Spits>, and it’s basically fine.
By the time we are outside, he has bounced back. Knowing he’s got a fun scoot home with his Dad ahead of him.

I point at my bike.
Boy8’s joy is diminished a bit. I know he was enjoying watch me shriek do battle cries at every kerb we had to cross. I no such troubles on my bicycle.
And now he will be trying to keep up with me.

I am just about to hop on me bike.
When Boy8’s swine mate runs over… TO BE MEAN AGAIN!

Mate: 'My scooter is way better than yours'

Again I have to watch all the fight and confidence sucked out of Boy8.
He seems to have no defence for this. It’s horrible. I hate it. He needs to learn some defence against the Dark Arts.
I am also not so passive this time...

You talkin’ to me?
Mate: ‘No’
You talkin’ to me?
Mate: ‘Er… What’s your Dad doing?’
You talkin’ to me?
Boy8: ‘Dunno… But that’s his De Niro impression...’
Mate: ‘How do you know? It doesn’t sound or look like De Nero in any way shape or form’
Boy8: ‘He gets all squinty, puts his head to the side and waves his hands about a lot’
Mate: ‘Oh. My Dad too!’

That would have been better to be honest.
Than what I actually did.
Because instead of showing Boy8 that you simply ignore gits people like this.
I engaged. I squared up to an eight year for a battle of sass and mean-ness.
I can honestly say, I felt I could get a win here…

Oh! And where’s your scooter?
Mate: ‘Its…;
<Interrupts> Well I don’t think you have one….
Or is it a babies one? Is why you haven’t got it? <Nods his answer for him>
Is it? I bet it’s a girls one, a pink one… <Smirky ‘you suck’ smile>
<Me and Boy8 scoot and cycle off with dignity>
<Mate left looking gutted>

I hate me for most of this.
And I apologise for the sexist girl and pink comment. That was, and is, wrong.
It shows how much I had lost track of what I was doing. That I felt the need to use stupid sexist stereotypes to out-sass this boy. I am very sorry for what I said.
But I wasn’t sorry immediately…

Immediately I felt good!
A win! The effect my comments had on Boy8 was fantastic. He was suddenly ten feet tall.
His Dad had just mushed into the ground, verbally, a rival.
His Dad had just duffed up a bully for him, verbally.
Of course Boy8 felt good.

We headed off.
And everything kept re-sinking in.
I realised that another parent may have heard me.
And without context, what on earth was I doing? Being mean to an eight year old for fun? For kicks?
<Hangs head>
Even with the context it’s not great behaviour..

A car passed us on the way out.
It was the mate’s Dad. I like him. His wife too. They are nice. I chat with them.
What if the mate tells on the mean adult (that’s me)? What if he’s in tears right now?
Crap! How do I ever face them again!

I’m quite quiet on the way home.
I’m thinking. Me and Boy8 still have fun though. But less than we should have had.
We get home, Boy8 eats his bedtime cereal (don’t ask), gets ready for bed, argues about brushing his teeth again, as the first time was utter rubbish, he eventually grumps off to do it again, actually does a good job, he reads, I read. We chat about what happened. He goes to bed.
And I am left, alone, to ponder on what I did.

Take it away Eric... (Karekoe version for singalongness)

My mistake become obvious.
I defended my boy to much. Someone attacked him (verbally) and I leapt in all guns blazing and blaring, and then throwing them when I was out of bullets.
I used all my years, and knowledge, to attack back. And I've some years now.
At an eight year old.


I confessed all to Mrs. Amazing later that night.
She laughed with me I think. She eased my worries and pointed out that if his parents were cross I could say what a smegger their child he had been. Fair point.
I felt a lot better.

I’m still furious with myself for the sexist comments.
I really am. I am sorry Miss5, that was a big slip up. I’m sorry Mrs. Amazing. Sorry Mum.
Sorry to all women everywhere. I used your sex as an insult. That was crap.
It won’t happen again.

I spoke to Boy8 about it all.
Before he went to sleep. I asked him what he should do next time. When someone is being mean like that. He said, and I quote…

Boy8: ‘Yeah you say…’ <Does me being mean voice>
Boy8: ‘Where’s your scooter then?’ <Is all pointy, like I was>
Boy8: ‘Do you even have one? I bet you don’t’ <Does me mean face>
Boy8: ‘A babies one? Is why you haven’t got it? Your baby's… got it…?!?... er...’
Boy8: ‘And it’s pink!.. .and… and…erm…’
Boy8: ‘What did you say next Dad?’
<Is appalled with self and Boy8 memory>

We spent a long time chatting. To undo all that crap I had put in his head.
I explained why and how we should ignore braggards, because they suck.
And more importantly, much more,  I explained why my sexist comments were so damn wrong. I didn’t fancy it up or deflect at all.
I made it clear that I, ME, had behaved badly and I was sorry to the universe.

I saw the mates parents the next day. They said nothing.
I choose not to bring it up, or will mention it ever, ever, ever.