When my oldest was entering Kindergarten, there was just one thing that I really wanted him to learn – not reading or math or social studies or science. Good values are fine and all, and of course I want him to be polite and follow the rules and make friends. But what I really wanted him to learn, what I insisted that he learn, was my cell phone number.
I'm not sure what it was all about, but I drilled the kid morning, noon and night. I had flashcards. I arranged the tub letters. I did everything but tattoo it on his hand. In the end, he wasn't real clear on his birthday anymore, could no longer count to ten reliably, but he could spit my cell number out in two seconds flat on demand while stone cold asleep.
Maybe it was my working-parent guilt, or some weird control deal, or just the usual free-floating parental anxiety getting the best of me, but it worked. Every day, when Bubba gets home from school he calls me -- 3:16 PM CST – you can ask the guys in the office – you can set your watch by it.
A while back, a call inviting Bubba for an after-school playdate triggered a horrible realization. I asked my daughter Ri-ri, now a first grader, what my cell number was. She had no clue.
The now familiar blend of anxiety, guilt and regret that accompanies all my parenting low moments washed over me. Why hadn't I taught her my number? Laziness, because Bubba is so reliably imprinted? But she's not always with him. This is an almost criminal oversight. Is this what it feels like to be the middle child? Secret information passed to the older one – you, middle, never entrusted? Is this how birth order stuff happens? Ack. You think you are raising them just alike then something like this happens and the curtain is drawn back. Ugh. Guilt. Recrimination. Somebody's getting a big fat ice cream sundae, and is going to keep getting them until I stop feeling this way.
So I began the mind erasing protocol with Ri-ri, peppering her with my quizzes around the clock. And, as with most things, she did not take to the training as quickly or easily as Bubba. Her spirit was tough to break. I never felt completely convinced that the number was fully embossed on her brain.
Then Daddy Brad stalked into my office and tossed a scrap of paper in my face.
"Your daughter gave this to my son."
It was a piece of green construction paper marked "Seakrit" and folded over several times.
On the inside was written "my Dad's Sal Number" and a series of digits. There were also stars and hearts and smiley faces.
I gulped in a way only a father of daughters can gulp.
Brad went on to explain that when all the families were together at our house for a dinner, Ri-ri had hatched a plot for all the little kids to prank call her dad, and had armed them all with these fliers.
Now is that a middle child deal or what? Sneaky yet hilarious.
I was just glad that she got the number right.
Clay Nichols, Family Correspondent:
Clay’s column, Dadventure, published twice monthly to Gather Essentials: Family, is a sure-fire guide to raising flawless, perfectly behaved, and always obedient children. Uh, right.
Clay is the co-author of Filmmaking for Teens: Pulling Off Your Shorts, an award-winning playwright, and the Chief Creative Officer at DadLabs.com, a fatherhood website.
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Comments: 15
I love the idea to have her friends prank call you though! And in first grade! High school could be a little rough on you. :) Good luck!
You are not alone though, my husband likes to attach his business card to both our daughter's lunch boxes. Not sure why, since they have his number in the office and would most likely call me first.
I, too, always wonder if I'm treating my girls the same. Do all parents think that way?
Thanks again for sharing this story! It made me laugh :)
I love the dad that tapes his business card to the kid's lunch box. He gets it!
My sister used to pin my business card into her kids' pockets whenever they came to visit me.