It seems that a lot of time is spent priming kids for what they want to be when they grow up. Starting from birth, a lot of parents (myself included), start driving into their kids that when they grow up they can be something really badass. You can be an actor, a racecar driver, a football player or a singer. Then we do all of this shit, go to this practice or that and next thing you know, they spend the first 15 years of adulthood stoned drunk and slutty.
I’m wondering if we should be a little more realistic with our kids. So here’s where this started with Bubba. Years ago, when he was 4 or 5, he wanted to be a garbage man. It’s super cool to get to ride on the outside of a truck. So I broke it down for him. We even googled the wage of a garbage man. I explained to him that on that wage you can’t buy the hot car that he desired. Now that I’ve grown up, how do garbage men pay their bills? There has to be a way. We’ve had the same garbage men for years. Must be a good company. Do they let girls drive those trucks? Ok back on track. Bubba still doesn’t have a plan. He’s almost in high school.
I’m questioning this whole philosophy. Why do parents pressure their kids? On one hand, planning ahead is awesome. On the other hand, what percentage of kids grow up to be what they’ve always dreamed they would be? How often do you hear of hotshots saying that they dropped out of college and their parents were pissed? Or finished college with a doctorate and wound up opening a mechanic shop because that’s where their heart is.
Hell, I planned on living on a big farm with a bunch of rough and tough football stars that I called my sons and now I’m fat, living on a funny farm with weirdo non-athletic types that I love more than life itself. Luckily I didn’t go with plan A which was to be an astronaut since they’ve shut NASA down. That would have sucked for me. Then I’d probably start blogging about “oh poor me, I don’t get to saddle up on a rocket anymore.” That would be lame!
I think planning life so far in advance is like making a birth plan. As soon as shit hits the fan, like contractions, you can use that birth plan to wipe your ass when you shit yourself pushing a watermelon out of your woohoo. Life happens. Dreams change. You think you’re going to get all star NFL kids, but you get one that stumbles over a piece of dust, one that dances to her own beat, one that’s out of this world and one that just wants to run you over with his bike.
I often wonder what I want to be when I grow up. I imagine myself in all sorts of jobs. Then I think, I wonder if they are okay if I stay home and read Hungry Caterpillar when my little Avery has the sniffles. I wonder if they will let me take the summer off to go to the beach. I wonder if they are okay if we go on vacation a lot. Then I realize that I don’t keep up with my chores as is, how in the hell am I going to get a real job.
This was further confirmed when Fiona couldn’t go to sleep tonight. She went to IH to request help. He was clueless. She said, just do what mom does. I then realized that I have magical powers. For job security pruposes, I won’t tell anyone how to do what I do.
Who needs to be a squillionaire? This shit is priceless. Who needs to fly a Learjet? We can just fly by the seat of our pants. I’ve got the best job right here.