Parenting 101

On of my favoritest friends is about to become a father and never mind the genetic miracle that actually is and think for a second what it is like waiting for that joyous moment.

He asks me all the time, at odd hours, about parenting, because in reality, I am possibly the best parent on the planet. So I tell him some of my secrets and one of them I am sharing with you people is this - the importance of rituals. Kids love the rituals. Our favorite, with the five kids and me was trophy burning day.

It really started simply enough. See, the core of my parenting philosophy is to degrade and humiliate the children at every opportunity. Hey stupid this and bring daddy another cold one your worthless that. Kids eat that sort of thing up. What it does, or so I have been told by countless experts, is builds character. Which is what good parenting is all about really, building good character, that and being a role model.

Role modeling is important, and when it comes time to be a good role model, my advice has always been to hire a housekeeper named Lucia. She should barely speak English and if at all possible, it would be best if she was just adequate at housekeeping, that way, when she leaves, you can humiliate her behind her back, to the kids, who eat stuff like that up. Learning to speak ill of people behind their backs is a keystone of good parenting.

All 7 of my kids were superior athletes, mostly because from the day they could crawl I would let them play with the rabid raccoons that lived near our house. In fact, and this is really just a neighborhood rumor, at least one of my kids "went missing" while playing with the rabid raccoons. I would not know.

Raccoon play is just one way to instill a competitive attitude in young children. The other is what we used to call Super Violent Indoor Ball Tag (SVIBT). I think the name speaks for itself, and really, the only real rule for this game was how it ends. See, obviously you play super violent ball tag with a ball, that you throw at top speed at any available family member, all well and good so far. The key is that everyone must be running, jumping and attempting to hide from the fast moving projectile. Super fun times. Only rule? You play until someone is crying.

Obviously you survive rabid raccoon play and super violent ball tag you move on to the regular organized sports that all children take part in. My adorable competitive little wonders loved soccer. Soccer is a stupid sport and should be illegal and if Jasper Flem is ever elected, I am sure that would be one of the first things he does. One thing that none of the "parenting" books mention is that in every child sport there comes a time when these fake ceremonies are held and everyone gets a trophy, a plaque, a signed letter and a formal medical release. Then some cake.

I hated these sorts of pompous ceremonies with a passion and from day one, upon returning home, we would start a large fire out in the woods and burn the trophies, paperwork and jerseys. It was our way of saying thanks, but no thanks. A pointless ceremony to honor a pointless ceremony. This went on at the end of every soccer season and as more and more of the children were indoctrinated into the suburban soccer zombie traditions, we would have more and more fires ridding ourselves of the silliness.

That is until one fall day. We had returned home in our minivan (of course) and the hundreds of children who were now living with me all piled out and placed their trophies and other assorted non-essential soccer garbage into a large pile. Sonia number 7 grabbed a gas can and then, up on the second floor deck, one of the children, my oldest girl, walked out, naked a a jaybird, except for the terrible attempt at Native American makeup she had applied using bright red lipstick to encircle her eyes and some sort of white powder all around her face so she looked like a 7 year old drunken clown, and she pronounced that the "ritual of cleansing should begin, but only after your warrior leader does a traditional prayer."

Hah I thought, a prayer, why we are not the praying sort of family. We are the sort of family that mocks the praying sort of families. We are also the sort of family that stands naked on a deck and makes up sarcastic prayers for unearned trophies and letters of accomplishment that were not only unearned, but lacking in any sort of authority. So she began her prayer.

"I pray to the great soccer gods that you take back these useless trophies and your soccer clothes already worn."

She continued, but I was already backing the minivan up and driving away.

Later that day I returned to find that the house has burned down. I was as shocked as anyone, but a fire investigator explained that the heat from the melting trophies had burned so hot that a nearby rose bush had burst into flame and caught a deck post and the rest just seemed to start and soon the house was ablaze.

Which is why, to this day, every single member of our family still has a distaste for almost anything soccer related.