Barton Grover Howe is taking some time off to celebrate the release of his newest books on Amazon.com by talking to both of his fans on street corners. Filling in is his 18-month-old daughter, Nola.
I’m beginning to think my parents are people of great limitation.
For one thing, they continue to act like everything I do is of monumental importance and should therefore be done over and over again. Take walking.
I learned to do this back in July, and I have to admit, it’s really changed the way I look at things. Mainly, that everything doesn’t look like the floor; that is a very boring view when you’re crawling around all the time.
But having learned to do it, I no longer find it to be the centerpiece of my entire existence. Yes, I still get excited by derivations of walking: running, running wildly, running wildly with wooden objects of unknown providence in my mouth. But as to walking itself? That is so last summer.
My parents, on the other hand, continue to act as if by every step were necessary and valuable to my continued development as a bipedal mammal. Everywhere we go, they want me to walk with them, and even hold their hand. Whether this last part is to facilitate parent-child bonding, or just to keep me from bending over and grabbing furry objects of unknown providence and putting them in my mouth, I don’t know.
What I do know is that it’s really annoying, so listen up all you parent-peoples out there: Walking is great, I get it. But I’m over it. Pick me up, carry me where I want to go, and stop acting as if every step I take is Neil Armstrong’s moral equivalent. Unless of course I see a slimy object of unknown providence, then you should let me go immediately.
Another thing about my parents: They don’t seem to be real imaginative. Honestly, they seem to think that everything in the house has just one use. Worse, every time I invent a different use, they shut down my creativity
According to them, pots and pans are not musical instruments. Really? If that’s true, then why do pot lids look just like cymbals? They even have handles, although I will admit the sound of slamming Pyrex does not resemble anything in the 1812 Overture. (Weird.)
The coffee table in the living room? Who says that’s not for climbing? Certainly not the people who designed it. Clearly if you’re going to make a table that short, you meant someone to climb on top. It certainly wasn’t meant to be covered with books, as my parents seem to think. (And is no longer, I might add.)
Finally, what is their obsession with keeping things in the trash? Here I am, a young, impressionable mind looking to build my vocabulary, and every time I find something with a new word to learn, they take it from me. “Chardonnay,” “Muscat,” “Drop Top:” these are really cool words, and a heckuva lot more interesting that all those books with teddy bears in them.
Better, as objects of known providence, you’d think it would be better to put those in my mouth. But, once again, my parents shut me down. Jealousy, I think; Daddy’s got them hanging out of his mouth like two hours a night.
Something about being stressed out all the time. Weird.
Barton Grover Howe is a humor columnist, teacher, occasional stand-up comedian and resident of the Oregon Coast, who does not drink and Dad -- until she is in bed. His writing can also be found at “BartonGroverHowe.com.”