The First Ten Years, Matthew Kennedy, Books, Real Stories

If you’ve ever spent any time in Los Angeles, then you can surely appreciate what the weather is like in late July-early August. The mornings always start the same, 70 degrees and overcast with the ever-present threat of 80 degrees and sunny. What a shock!

The Chief and O’Leary were halfway through a summer camp that, like most things that kids have to do when their parents work, bored them to death. I’d come to understand that if it doesn’t cost a fortune and isn’t non-stop entertainment, like an amusement park for kids with hyper-attention deficit disorder, it will be boring. You just can’t win this game as a parent.

This very problem has me considering a grassroots movement for mandatory conscription of children ages six through eight. Each child will be assigned one of those ridiculous balsa wood hand paddles with the red ball connected by an elastic cord. The children will be required to bounce the ball off the paddle for two years with breaks allowed only for water and meals, consisting of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches - and maybe a nap. But no naps if they complain about being bored.

I am confident that after those two years, no parent will hear about boredom ever again. After a program like that, children would seize up with stimulation overload with lively nights of watching paint dry and eating frozen corn. Alas, it is only a dream, one I would never have time to see through. I am way too busy trying to get the boys to summer camp on time.

And this morning is one of those overly-stressful days where the boys are going on a “field trip” to the giant money vacuum, Knott's Berry Farm. Both Alison and I have problems with these parks, I get caught up in that it's really for big kids and Ronan and O’Leary will be so bored. Alison thinks that Al Qaeda built the rides and they were specifically designed to bring destruction to our children, she has a hard time with this. Funny, there is probably a better chance of her fear happening than mine.

As usual, on days when you need to get somewhere earlier than usual, the day starts rough and goes downhill from there. Today was no different. As we get ready to leave, O’Leary decides he has to go the bathroom, right after he just went. I challenge him to wait but he responds with “I am going to wet my pants.” He has the smallest bladder the planet. Uuugghh!

He runs to the bathroom. Ronan and I wait on the porch for what seems like forever. I hear screaming from the bathroom, I run back there and he had no toilet paper. This doesn’t make any sense because I am convinced he barely uses toilet paper. We quickly resolved that problem only to encounter another. We get as far as the living room when I hear grunts and whines of frustration behind me.

I turn to see O’Leary thrashing around the floor. He doesn’t like his underwear, his socks kept bunching up and his sneakers hurt. I thought “you're only five, how is it possible to have this many problems?” On top of it, he managed to do all this complaining at an absolute glacial pace.

“O’Leary we have to go,” I say forcefully. He just looks at me and starts grabbing at his underwear. He is really getting into it now, selling that discomfort with every fiber of his being. Ronan is calling out to me from the porch; I hear the anxiety in his voice. “Dad we’re late.”

This was just the kind of morning in which all the frustration and anxiety builds so much for a parent that they spontaneously lose their eyesight, only to be quickly followed by a loss of hearing and then no feeling in your extremities. At this point, my eyes were starting to go dark.

I think these bodily reactions are sort of like that giant red flashing “BIOHAZARD” light in a nuclear power plant. It is the body’s own warning system telling you “WARNING, WARNING THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WITH KIDS.”

Kids bring on the exasperation and when all else fails, certain words slip out and parents then have to resort to creative explanations about the words we use to vent our frustration.

We all know, the excuses “Oh no honey, I said ’tuck’, he has to tuck his shirt in.”

“What? no, no, I said ’shirt!’” Then, in a quick demonstration of your mastery of psychology over to 5 and 7 year olds, you aggressively ask “What did you think I said?” Ronan doesn’t buy it . . . but he knows enough to keep quiet.

“That’ll teach ‘em” you think confidently walk away. Of course, we fail to realize at the time that these are the occasions when a child’s hearing is at its best - like some kind of super-hearing that stores the word for use at a time meant to cause the most embarrassment for the parents - like during a meeting with a teacher.

. . . back to the morning’s battle.. We had to get to camp by 8:00 a.m. because the bus for Knott’s Berry Farm was leaving at 8:15 a.m. They were both pestering the living daylights out of me . . .

Ronan: “Dad, my bathing suit!”

Me: “Are you going swimming today?”

Ronan; “No, but I need it.”

Me: “No, we’re leaving or we’ll be late!”

O’Leary: “Dad, don’t forget my swim goggles.”

What is wrong with him? It was right about this time that I lost my sense of smell. This was a new warning signal. The oddest thing was that this was probably the most rational conversation of the morning. All the while I am spilling coffee all over the place because I am trying to get their 12 million pound back packs into the car and I am losing the battle, badly.

Victory! We are finally in the car. It’s clear in this ten minute span of madness, the temperature climbed about 50 degrees and I’ve broken into a nasty sweat just getting out of the house. Boy, sweaty in a suit and tie, very attractive.

Once they are in their seats the next issue, of course, is seat belts. I know, I know, how hard can that be? When you’re in a hurry and whether you have one or ten kids, it’s the trump card that guarantees your madness. They use it like a gun in a hold-up.

Ronan: “Dad, he’s on my seat belt” or something like it, is how it always starts.

Forcefully, I respond “No he’s not, just put your seat belt on. We have to hurry.”

Click, click, the sound of metal missing the hole for the seat belt, every parent knows that sound when you are in a hurry. Click, click, Ronan is in a panic-stricken lather. “It’s broken, he broke it!”.

I swear to God almighty that is the war cry of every child, it’s their shot across the bow to let you know that you better take a deep breath and count to ten.

Of course all rational people know, the reasoned response is “No it isn’t. Just buckle it.” But there is no point, hysteria is at an all time high. They know I am frustrated and want to get going, I have to get back there. I jump in the back seat to get them buckled in. At this point, my suit looks like I picked it up off the closet floor.

Well, everyone knows what comes next. Somehow, some way, they both managed to gain 2.9 million pounds because all of sudden the seat belt won’t go around their bodies. Finally, they deflate just enough for you to get the seat belt on them, but that is the precise moment when the stupid safety catch on the seat belt “catches” and it stops suddenly in mid-pull. So at the height of your most heated frustration, momentum of the belt stops suddenly and you feel your rotator cuff shatter. And then here we go, right back to square one, explaining that you didn’t swear.

So when I finish explaining that I really did say “hoggambit” and told them not to worry about what it means, I get the seat belts buckled and we are off. Of course, time is running short and they have to be at camp or they miss the trip which they take the opportunity to tell me every 4.2 seconds.

Children, I have found, are blessed with some mechanism in their brain that somehow refuses to recognize that they keep asking the same question over and over again. In fact, I’m certain that they think they are asking a new question every time.

With the Chief, it all comes with the drama of a Southern belle losing the farm that Daddy left her and now the evil banker is coming to kick her off the land. He’s just like that, we all know the posture. He has the back of his hand placed on his forehead, holding back the grief. He is practically panting he is so dramatic. His head tilted back ever so slightly, “Oh Dad, I’m never going to get to go on this field trip. I hate my life.”

First, I’m thinking “what the F***?” You’re seven years old, it's Knott’s Berry Farm for Christ’s sake. Second, I realize it’s useless; he is lost in the reverie of his 7-year old existentialism. Then I realize that I don’t even know what that means. His worry is accompanied by several “Ooohhhs” and “Aaahhhs.” My God it sounds like he is having a baby back there. I am very, very close to losing my mind.

Now O’Leary, that is a different matter altogether. He has all the subtlety of a great white shark. “How long Dad?”

”We’ll make it, don’t worry.”

“Are we late?”

“No….. we’ll be fine.”

Then I see the expression on his face like he has just figured out the meaning of life and he says it like he never thought of it before.

“How long Dad?”

In the midst of this brilliant question-and-answer period, the Chief’s labor is progressing nicely.

“We’ll make it on time O’Leary.”

Again, “How long Dad?”

He is doing it on purpose. He has to be.

Well the traffic, true to form in Los Angeles, is not moving. Most likely a person up ahead in the left-hand lane wants to get over to the right, but they can’t do it until he or she finishes the most amazing telephone conversation ever. Most likely a Mercedes. It has to be. See, the one thing I have learned living in Los Angeles is, in the Mercedes owner's manual, it says you never have to use your directional, especially if you are on the phone. Just take your time and do what you want. This person was taking their cue right from the manual. It is the one constant you will find in L.A. driving, you're never as important as a fellow driver's phone conversation. I think it is in the California DMV rulebook.

Amidst all the madness, I notice there is no oncoming traffic and I have an opportunity to turn left. Brilliant, then I can take side streets all the way and make it on time and avoid this huge headache. The only problem is the near-invisible (at least to me) “No Left Turn” sign. The boys are urging me and I do it, feeling some relief to be off the busy street. Don’t you know it, there is a policeman waiting right there and cars are lined up all the way down the street. He has his ticket pad out and looks right at me.

He points me to the side of the street. “Uuggh!” I am so mad. I try to apologize and assure the boys we’ll make it, but it's no use. The Chief has slipped into a coma from all the stress and O’Leary just keeps repeating a la Rainman “are we late Dad?” The one relief I have is that O’Leary is so excited by the police officer that he just stops yammering. Thank God.

The officer comes up to me and explains they just put up signs,

“No left turns between 7:00 a.m. and 9:00 a.m., I need your license and registration.”

Me: “Since when? I never saw it.”

Policeman; “It's new, sorry.” I think he means it, I was surprised by this.

He can see I am frustrated but what can I do? Ronan comes to and tells me “it's Vin Diesel Dad!” and then he slips back into unconsciousness. I must say, even in his incapacitated emotional state, he was right. The officer looked just like Vin Diesel.

I decide to beg, and I’ll admit it, I’m not above using my children if need be.

Me: “Is there any way you can let me off this time? I have to get them to camp or they are going to miss their field trip.”

He feels for me I can tell, but he points to all the cars lined up down the street, “I can’t let you go and give them all tickets.”

Thinking fast, I ask, “Can’t you let us all go?”

He doesn’t think it’s funny. I thought it was pretty funny. Ronan is now deep in labor. I have only heard the pained and anguished noises he is making when Alison gave birth.

I’m pleading, “Please, I gotta get them to camp and I only have fifteen minutes.”

Then a soft whisper from the back seat, “coooolll” I look in my driver side mirror to see O’Leary staring at the officer’s gun.

That’s when the officer makes his first mistake; he looks in the back and sees how anxious the boys are.

Policeman: “I can’t.” He is reluctant, I can feel it.

Me: “Can I just give you my license and come back? I swear I’ll come back right after I drop them off.”

He gives me an odd look, “I can’t do that.”

“I swear to God, I’ll come right back, I really have to get them to camp so they don’t miss the bus, please? I swear, I’ll come right back.” I am whining now and I think it's embarrassing for him to see me act like such an ass.

He makes his second mistake, he looks at them again.

Me: “Please, it’ll take you at least a half hour to write all these people tickets anyway. I’ll come right back.”

He is not amused. I’m done. I don’t know what else to do so I just stare at him. The Chief is beside himself with grief. I can’t even identify the noises he’s making. O’Leary emits a sort of low gruff hiss. I think he is having trouble breathing. Obviously, he is confused because he gets to see a police officer in action, which is really exciting for him, but he also wants to make his field trip. He doesn’t know who to cheer for.

The officer looks at them and concedes defeat. He asks “what do you think guys, should I give your Dad a ticket or let him go?”

Now I find out what my kids are made of, what they feel about their old man. We are a family and it’s all about sticking together. Ronan doesn’t miss his cue. He is very upset, on the verge of crying, he looks at the Officer. “Please don’t give my Dad a ticket, please!” He is pleading with the officer. Oh man, he’s going to win an Oscar someday.

Quietly I think to myself, that a boy, we’ll be out of here in two seconds. Once O’Leary tells him no ticket for Dad, we are on our way.

The officer looks at O’Leary “What do you think Bud?” he asks.

He was done, O’Leary would straighten the whole thing out now and after just a brief second of deliberation O’Leary blurts out,

“Give him a ticket! Give him a ticket! Give him a ticket!” He is pumping his fists the whole time.

The officer is shocked.

I wish I was.

The officer starts laughing and tells me to “Get outta here. You better lock that one up when you get home.”

I meant to say “Don’t worry I’ll lock him up for sure,” but somehow that comes out as “Thank you so much, I really appreciate it.”

He is still laughing, “I have to let you go after that, you made my day.”

So in the end, I didn’t get a ticket, they got to camp on time my male pattern baldness began its acceleration phase and the person in the Mercedes got to go right. Whew, at least there is some justice in the world.