An elderly friend of mine who loves long, hot summers recently mentioned to me that she was starting to notice signs of fall in the cool night air. “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” she explained, “but as soon as the summer starts to die, I can feel it in my tired old bones.”
Over the years, I too have learned to tell when the awful dog days of August have truly arrived — I start wanting to strangle my kids! A case in point was late last Tuesday night when I quietly stepped into my oldest son’s bedroom to make sure his radio (which he sticks next to his ear and listens to all night long) was turned off. Much to my surprise, not only was the radio turned off, but he was not in his bed. As my eyes slowly adjusted to the dark, it became obvious that in his place was a carefully constructed blanket dummy. Other than the fact that it was a little too plump and had no feet, it was a very believable dummy indeed, and I could tell that a lot of serious thought and genuine effort had gone into its creation.
As I continued to admire the dummy, I also happened to notice that his window was wide open, and his curtains were softly floating in the night breeze. The first thought which entered my mind was that perhaps he had been kidnapped but knowing that most kidnappers don’t take the time to leave behind a blanket dummy, I decided there was probably a less alarming explanation.
The next thought that popped into my head was actually the name of his best friend. You see, when my son is up to no good, I can usually bet the house and most of my life savings that his best friend is with him. Anyway, I sat down on my son’s bed and gave some serious thought to what a good, caring father should do in this type of situation. My choices were actually quite numerous. I could call the police and have them try to find him; I could worry my wife half to death by waking her up and asking her if she knew of any good reason why her first-born son should not be in his bed at 11:30 on a school night; or I could go ahead and put on my clothes, get in the car, and scour the neighborhood for him.
Finally, after carefully thinking through all my options, I stood up, walked over to the window, closed it, locked it as tightly as I could, and went back to bed.
Approximately an hour later, at the front door, appeared my beloved son, dripping wet from head to toe and meekly requesting that he be allowed back into the house.
“Nice dummy,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said softly.
“I take it you and your best friend went for a little late-night swim over at the high school pool, something I’ve told you more than once you’re not allowed to do?”
“How did you know he was with me?”
“Oh, just one of those wild guesses.”
“Come on, Dad. Please let me in. I’m cold.”
“Let’s see, it’s after midnight, so I guess the lifeguard had probably already gone home, right?”
He mumbled something under his breath like he often does when he is sure his father is clueless and said, “I’m a good swimmer, Dad, you know that.”
“Well,” I sighed, “any ideas on how I should punish you for this one?”
“Restriction, I guess,” he finally answered. “I don’t care. Just please let me in, and don’t tell Mom, okay?” Then he looked up at me with the most innocent blue eyes a guilty young man could have and quickly added, “But please, Dad, whatever you do, promise me, really promise me, that you won’t go writing about it in that stupid newspaper column of yours.”