I thought I'd let you down, dear, but you were just deflating

It isn't particularly adorable when my youngest son rests his head in my lap. Yes, I know, it sounds adorable, especially after I tell you he's still only five years old. After double digits, it just gets weird.

Usually when my son rests his head in my lap it's either because he's horribly sick with something and resting his head in my lap, while temporarily making him feel better, usually just means the proximity just about assures transmission of whatever it is that's eating him alive one red blood cell at a time and leaves me zero recourse, space-wise, should his gastrointestinal system decides to revisit lunch...

...or (there was an "either" in there, remember?) it means he's being obnoxious in that way that only labrador retrievers and children can be, insisting on attention when you're not ready/willing/able to give it, in the most persistent non-verbal way possible. It's a way to say emphatically "Here I am. You will mind me." The hair on top of a human head for a five year old, yes, keeps the sun off the ole scalp, but really is most useful at lessening friction so s/he can fit their entire head between your tricep and ribcage and worm his/her way through to unignorable lap time. It's a trick they learn on the way out of the birth canal and never, ever seem to forget.

In any case, head-in-lap time usually dovetails neatly with sleepy-time (sick and/or needy, right?) which means they fall asleep, they drool and 30 minutes later, I can't feel my feet.

And what's more adorable than functional paraplegia? I ask you.

Like today, we're at Back to School Night (not to be confused with PTA Family Night, School Open House, Student of the Month Night, Parent-Teacher Conferences... it sounds like a lot, but do you know what they make teachers out of in California? 23 year old ladies. Just saying) and I'm sitting there trying to follow along with the State of California 4th Grade Standards in Mathematics and the youngest will not stop. He's clawing and fighting and baby-talking and pressing his way to get his head in my lap, while I'm trying there pretending to both listen and to be comfortable sitting in a plastic chair designed to hold roughly 1/3 of me.

Finally, as usual, the little parasite wins. And not only does he win, but his eyes are rolling in the back of his head and for some evolutionarily involuntary reason, as I always do, I'm sitting there stroking his stupid hair, cursing myself for being such a sucker when I have the following thought:

How many people out there started out just like this? How many boys laid with their heads in their dad's lap when they were five, all golden and safe and eager and comfortable and soothable and warm, still uncomplicated, still unhurt, still innocent, still wondering and wondrous, still uncorrupted by stress and wisdom and doubt and self-awareness and fear. I mean, he has fear. He won't look under his bed after 6 pm, but you know, he's not worried about the mortgage.

But there he is, still mostly perfect; a downey, blue-eyed, person-shaped bag of limitless potential. How many boys had moments just like this with fathers just like me and still, no matter what we did, they still managed to grow up to be complete and total assholes?

I don't really have an answer except to say that even though parenting isn't my main gig anymore, it's still kind of freaky, not to mention practically impossible.

So what I did was, when we got home, I let him eat Twinkies and Sprite. Because I figure, you know, I have all these rules, but what will they really matter in the end? He might as well be happy in the moment. They have cures for diabetes. Or, you know, they will.