THAT Christ guy sure seemed to be a pretty righteous dude and one who deserves to be emulated, but sometimes as a parent I find it a little hard to decide What Would Jesus Do when the question is something like 'Should I let my toddler taste my beer?'
Following the WWJD guidebook seems a bit tricky considering it was written two millennia ago, years before parents were forced to decide when to let their kids use the iPhone. Though I'm not deeply religious, I do try to loosely follow the kindness, inclusiveness and tolerance Jesus stuff. But particularly since my kids were born, I've added a new layer that is my ultimate day-to-day mantra: WWMWWMTD?
Now I don't want you thinking that I've always been a brainless man, making every decision based on the principal of What Would My Wife Want Me To Do. Before we had kids I would proudly and courageously make two, maybe even three solo decisions per week.
Server: What can I get you?
My wife: We'll share the large garden salad.
Me: Would you be able to split that up for us? And for mine I'll add some potatoes - French-fried style please - some cheese curds and a bit of hot gravy. Oh, and can you hold the lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, dressing and anything else that isn't coloured brown?
Thanks.
My wife: Zut alors. Those of you who are well cultured will have noticed something in the above exchange: I'm a pig. No, wait, not that part. This part: my wife speaks French. That, in fact, is just one small part of the elaborate, well thought out, extremely comprehensive parenting plan she put in place for raising kids. Now that we have two beautiful boys, the plan is in full swing. She only speaks French to them so that they'll grow up bilingual. She only feeds organic fruits and vegetables to them so that they'll grow up healthy and pretentious. She limits them to half an hour of TV time a day maximum - usually it's zero minutes a day - so that they'll grow up unaware of Snooki. And speaking of orange people, she makes them wear a hat and sunglasses at all times outside so that their pasty Nordic noses will stay melanoma free.
My parenting philosophy? Let's just say it's not so fully formed. Actually, once I got past don't hurt anyone else too badly and try not to get yourself killed, there wasn't much left except no bare-bum toots. Those are just dangerous.
So basically now whenever a parenting decision arises I turn off my own brain - and let's be honest, it was probably just thinking about boobs and baseball anyway - and flick on the WWMWWMTD switch.
This very issue came up on a recent episode in Jerry Seinfeld's web project, Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee. Jerry was out with David Letterman and the two of them, both now dads, got talking about parenting philosophy.
Dave asked Jerry what he would do if his kid asked to skip baseball practice after hurting his hand while mucking around.
"I support whatever position my wife takes. That's what I'd do," said Jerry.
"Because she knows more about parenting than you?" asked Dave.
"Here's the thing," said Jerry. "It doesn't matter what you do, but why have a fight with your wife?"
That's a good lesson in family values right there.
Jerry, as is his wont, took it a little too far though. "I kind of look at my family now and I think, 'Well, in 60 years everyone is dead here. So. . . "
And, while glancing around for the waitress, came Dave's great answer: "Could I have the cheque please?"
I'm not quite as fatalistic as Jerry but I get where he's coming from. One of us in my parental unit has very specific expectations, rules and goals.
The other is me. So I might as well adopt those expectations and goals, even if I sometimes feel like Zut Alors doing it.
"Sure honey, let's take him to the naturopath to check out that rash. We don't need sterile old western medicine and their 'drugs' that are covered by my 'health plan' when we can pay a pretty lady $200 for some cod poop pills that will solve the problem 'from within.'"
"Yes baby, you're right. Even though he is eight months old we should stop the stroller every three steps and put those sunglasses back on his face. I'm sure he'll learn his lesson any minute now."
So far it's working. Our boys are charming little fellows who are far more polite than I'll ever be and eat far more vegetables than I ever will. And I have an uncluttered brain that still has ample space for important things such as beer, 1990s rap lyrics, up-to-the-minute rankings of the best burger places in town, and more beer.
There is only one worry I have left: the pop quiz.
"Did you give our son some of your energy bar?"
Uh oh. Think brain, think. WWMWWMTD? Time to improvise.
"Um, absolutely . . . not?" Did she buy it? Yes? Praise the lord.
