Iím writing this article while sitting in my fatherís chair. You know the chair of which I speak. It is that ratty old recliner that occupies the living room, den, or man-cave that no guest or other family member is ever allowed access. It belongs exclusively to my father.
So, how did I plant my butt in such an honored chair? Simple: Itís the best seat in the house, and my father isnít here right now. While the master is away, I will occupy the throne; it is good to be king, if only for a few hours.
When I was a kid I really thought my father was a king, and not just because of his chair. I looked up to him as if he were a superhero who could leap tall buildings with a single bound, bend steel bars with his bare hands, catch bullets in his teeth, and defeat all of his arch enemies.
With hands the size of pot roasts and the strength of an ox, I was amazed at how he could lift me above his head, how fast he could run, and how there was nothing he could not do. ďMy daddy can beat up your daddy,Ē was a routine phrase on my lips.
And smart? Lord, yes, he was smart. He seemed to understand or know everything! He could do pre-algebra in his head and long division without picking up a pencil; he could read the hardest words, fix anything broken, and solve any problem. He might as well have been a king.
But as I got older, as a teenager, I discovered my father was growing remarkably stupid. In just a few short years, somehow, he became a backward, bumbling simpleton with not a clue to how the world really worked.
He offered inane advice on everything from money and education to automobiles and the opposite sex. He set ridiculous boundaries in regard to my time, work, school, and friends. A few times he even dared to critique or forbid my well-made decisions. What an idiot.
Then, in my 20s, my father must have returned to school or started taking smart pills. His counsel improved dramatically ó almost overnight. His words were far sounder than I could ever remember. It was obvious an old dog could learn new tricks. I was so proud of him.
And now, with growing children of my own, my father practically has a PhD. No, heís not as big and strong as he once was, but he is absolutely brilliant, even smarter than before. His intellectual turnaround has been miraculous.
But what bothers me is the fact that I am my fatherís son. See, I get more like him every day: The cadence of my voice, my mannerisms, the gray in my beard, my dietary habits, my elevated cholesterol. So I fear I too will have a mid-life plunge into idiocy.
I donít have a ďchairĒ at home, but today my children look upon me with something akin to worship, as I looked upon my father. Tomorrow they will despise my advice, my words, and the limitations I place upon them because my IQ will have shrunk down to nothing as their own rises to near Einstein levels.
I know it is coming. I can feel it. Sometimes, just by the way my children look at me, or how they question my judgment, or when they angrily resist me, I can tell Iím getting dumber. I ďjust donít understand.Ē I donít ďget it.Ē Iím standing in the way of their good time. It is all sure to get worse before it gets better.
But hopefully, after a decade or so on the dark side, my mental capacities will improve as my own fatherís did. Maybe then I wonít be such a bonehead, and my children will find me worth listening to again.
Itís really too bad that we fathers take these short trips into stupidity when our children are at such vulnerable junctions in their lives. They sure could use a little help.
Ronnie McBrayer is a syndicated columnist, speaker, and author of multiple books. You can read more and receive regular e-columns in your inbox at www.ronniemcbrayer.me.