It’d be easier if my kid came with strings attached.
Like a marionette.
Or better yet, if she had a robotic skeleton with a remote control. Yeah, and a speaker inside her cheek so I could talk for her, make sure she always says the right thing.
With the enthusiasm of a 9-year-old and the experience of a middle-aged man, she’d be top of her class, star on the playground, social queen of all situations. Class president, award-winning artist, a socioemotional genius.
I’d sit at home peering through her little camera eyes, hands on the controls… easy now, girl… you’re gettin’ hot… let me just turn the intensity of that temper tantrum down a notch… there, much better.
Like an emotional Cyrano de Bergerac, I’ll anticipate the comments of her peers and navigate the nuances of the playground politics, making sure — for damn sure — everyone likes her. That’s the big thing, isn’t it, the thing anyone who’s loved a little one wants? For them to be liked. For them to belong.
Alas, we, as a nation-state have wasted all of our tech prowess on silly things like self-driving vehicles and military drones, so no remote control kid for me.
Now, I’m relegated to asking questions after school and piecing together bitter pieces of truth like a torn-up love letter.
And then what did you say?
Kids aren’t stenographer material, that’s for sure. Their stories change direction; they end way before the real ending. Cut to credits… WAIT!
Without eyeball cameras, all I got is hope, like some superfan waving a big dumb sign, believing against all reality that I’m having some effect on the game.
I can scream all I want, the girl’s gonna drop the ball, miss the shot, push her opponent to the ground, step on her own teammate.
Ain’t no strings there to save me. Or her.
Wait, did I just show my hand?
I’ve got all aces, I’ve got Pele-level ball skillz, but I’m on the sidelines; it’s not my game to play.
I just have to watch her step on the other girl’s toes and see what she does afterward. It’s almost like watching a videotape of myself being batshit drunk and doing stupid stuff. Like my heart is on the outside of my body, spinning around out of control and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I can’t intervene. I just have to watch. And then deal with the aftermath, walk toward the dumpster fire with her tiny hand in mine.
It’s hard.
I still reach for the remote control.
Go tell her you’re sorry.
But just because she’s spitting out my words or moving her arms and legs in the right way doesn’t make her a good person.
She’s gotta reach that level on her own.
And the path she’s taking looks nothing like the one I came through. I guess that’s a good thing.
In the meantime, I’m going to stash the remote in my chest pocket, make a hundred signs in bright neon colored paint, and try like hell to keep my eyes open no matter the score.