Growing Old

There was a popular television show in Australia called “Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader”, to which I took a casual interest in, having a ten year old son at the time. The shows premise was a quiz show pitting bright young kids against various adults foolish enough to fall for the trap and the ensuing public humiliation.

The afore-mentioned show has long dropped off the radar but has continued to haunt me since it aired. I don’t consider myself to be overly smart or authorative on any particular subject but being a father I assume the role of surrogate teacher and mentor outside of school hours for my youngster. My boy who has not yet entered the teenage “know-all” phase continually amazes me with his natural intuitiveness which seems to juxtapose against my increasingly crusty behaviour.

The other day I was trying to demonstrate my artistic flair by designing a t-shirt motif which was printed via bubble jet printer onto special paper and then ironed on. Simple enough for someone who used to enjoy screen printing, except my progeny pointed out with great enthusiasm that I had neglected to print the negative for a readable end product. Doh! Unfortunately this is one instance of many and although I’m proud of the little bloke for his clarity the relish in which he illuminates my latest folly only seems to undermine my self esteem and authority.

In moments like these I can only take solace in the fact that I can whip his arse at indoor wrestling. Still the writing is on the wall. Indeed I can remember when my own father could back a trailer through the eye of a needle and yet these days his car seems to be permanently in the panel beaters after his latest altercation with a supermarket carpark.

In recent times my wife and I have taken a keen interest in our garden. I would never have believed that would be the case a few years ago. I guess you can’t stop the inevitable but I only hope I can grow old with an element of coolness or is that an oxymoron? :-)

 

As a Post Script to this story; I washed the said T-shirt for the first time whislt at the same time giving the offspring a lesson at my mastery of the washing machine. Problem was that the dial that I thought for the last 10 years said 90 minutes actually read 90 degrees. Doh! again. The result was a shrivelled up and faded T-shirt motif a little hurt pride and an even more cheeky 11 year old.