It is a parent’s job to worry about their offspring. You worry about their friends.
You worry when they don’t talk or walk as soon as other kids. You worry about the size of their head. Worry, worry, worry. Well, since little Sean Rush turned seven this past St. Patrick’s Day, I have at least one more reason to worry.
The other evening as I was walking past his bedroom door, I noticed he was practicing good personal hygiene, or so I thought. He had just hopped out of the bath, had his jammies on and was sitting on his bed.
‘Sean,? says I, ‘I see you’re filing down your nails. That’s good. Sometimes when you clip them they’re sharp, aren’t they??
He looked up at me, wide-eyed and with the, ‘oops, I’m caught? expression on his face. ‘Uhm,? says he, looking around to see if there was anybody else, besides me nearby. ‘I’m making them sharp.?
Making them sharp, thought I. I walked into his room, over to his bed and sat next to the mini-me. I must have had an odd expression, or one of concern on my face. (Though, I don’t know why a parent would be worried about a seven-year-old, sharpening his toenails. Doesn’t sound weird at all, does it?)
Then he whispered, ‘I am gonna? make a sword out of them.?
A sword of toe nails . . .
Then, with the metallic clink of nail clippers, he cut off the nail he had been working on. He picked the discarded nail piece off the floor, poked it into his cheek and nodded his head, ‘Sharp.?
He then took his ‘sharp? toenail piece over to his dresser and then looked around to make sure only he and I were in/near/or around his room. Then he quickly put his hand with said nail in between some books. When his hand re-emerged it was empty. In between those books was the secret source of his power — he had shown me his super secret nail cache.
‘I’m saving them, then I am gonna? make a sword out of them and then . . .? he went into a round-house-like karate kick and landed like something out of a Bruce Lee movie — crouching, arms ready to chop, legs ready to pounce, ? . . . I can fight bad guys.?
He then announced his superhero name: ‘I am Kid Toenail. Hi-ya!?
I suppose since I was the only other person in the world who shared his secret, he informed me I could be his butler adding, ‘What’s a butler??
I told him . . . but, I worry and I blame myself for his martial art delusions of grandeur. Somewhere softly, I can hear the late Scatman Crothers? raspy voice singing a tune I know so well . . .
Hong Kong Phooey, number one super guy.
Hong Kong Phooey, faster than the human eye.
He’s got style, a groovy style,
and a car that just won’t stop.
When the going gets tough, he’s really rough,
with a Hong Kong Phooey chop (Hi-Ya!)
Hong Kong Phooey, number one super guy.
Hong Kong Phooey, faster than the human eye.
Hong Kong Phooey, he’s fan-riffic (gong!)
My head is hanging with shame. My shoulders, slack. I am soooooo guilty. I taught Sean the words to that song soon after he was able to speak in sentences. I, his very own father — er, butler — poisoned his mind with the lyrics from a 1970s television cartoon show. It was cute then.
Now all I can do is worry.
Compounding my woe, is the fact that his Royal Toenailness has learned to ride a two wheeled-bicycle. Just this past weekend he rode round and around, round and around our drive way. He’d get up early and instead of watching cartoons, got dressed and practiced riding. Circle upon circle, each time faster, leaning closer and closer to the cold, gray cement.
‘Watch this, Dad!?
And he would take one hand off the handlebars.
‘How’s that? Watch this turn. I call this the ‘glory turn.?? And he made a perilously (to parental vision) sharp turn.
‘I love riding a two-wheeler, Dad. Thanks for showing me.?
More guilt.
And, sometimes while he peddled his little legs, he’d sing. ‘I love riding a two-wheeler. It is fun. Look out now. Watch out town, I am riding a two-wheeler, look out for Sean Rush!?
On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t worry. Maybe it’s really you who should be concerned. Just remember, someday soon Kid Toenail could be coming to a neighborhood near you or asking to date your daughter.