What Goes Around, Comes Around!

Deep inside, I knew this moment would eventually come. It wasn’t a matter of if but a matter of when – especially considering all the destruction I caused while growing up.

There was the time when I played tackle football with a friend inside the house. My “Hail Mary” pass sailed over the couch (which was the designated end zone) and split my mom’s crystal candlesticks like an extra point attempt splits the uprights.

Her ensuing rage was justified seeing how the rarely-used-but-now-shattered candlesticks were a wedding gift. And suggesting that Elmer’s glue may possibly provide a quick fix didn’t do much to calm her down either.

Another time, I had the great idea of writing a poem to my mom on her bathroom mirror – perhaps I was still feeling guilty about the candlesticks.

I was a bit surprised how unimpressed she was with my resourcefulness of using every lipstick and make-up pencil I could find in her drawer as writing utensils. The poem was short and needed overly-detailed illustrations of me and my mom for visual effect. Unfortunately for me, neither the poem nor the pictures achieved their intended effect - quite the opposite actually seeing how I ruined her entire stash of lipstick!

But I feared fear itself when I wrecked my dad’s beloved 1984 Mazda RX-7 . . . twice! You know the one with the rotary engine? I was 15 years old the first time I laid a scratch coming out of second gear – and don’t ask why I was laying scratches when I was only 15 years old!

Unfortunately, I laid much more than just a scratch when I slammed it in into 2 other cars. It took a month to find a car insurance company that would cover me!

I recount my own adolescent path of destruction so as to remind myself not to get too bent out of shape when Kelly tells me, for instance, that Tate has bent my glasses out of shape.

It’s hard to get upset because it’s partially my fault. Anything within Tate’s reach is fair game and these were left on my night stand. Besides, how do you lecture a 2-year old about how he should keep his sticky little fingers to himself and not further handicap his visually-impaired father?

I can't help but wonder if Tate is trying to send me some kind of message through my mangled specs. Perhaps I've been putting his diapers on a little too tight lately. Maybe he's getting sick and tired of being forced to listen to all-Beatles-all-the-time in the car. Maybe he really does prefer Elmo over The History Channel.

Naaa!!

Oh well, I had just hoped that the inevitable destruction would happen later rather than sooner.

What goes around, comes around - right?