Dan's Papers -November 6, 2009 - The Sheltered Islander

SAN ANTONIO - San Antonio police are investigating the wounding of a man after his elderly father allegedly opened fire when the victim refused to stop drumming. Police said the son, in his 50s, suffered a non-life threatening head wound early Friday while at the home the men share. Police said his 83-year-old father was detained on an aggravated assault charge.

I see that the Associated Press has put a negative slant on this story. I would like to speak up for this 83-year-old father. I look at it this way; for 20 years this man raised his son and put up with God knows what.

You bring your children home fresh from the hospital. They're cute and immobile. You can swaddle them and prop them up anywhere. They fit neatly in the corner of any chair or couch and if you're traveling, they can fit in the overhead bin. That lasts for six months and then the little terrors learn to crawl. They get into everything and you can't punish them for whatever they break or ruin because they don't comprehend that they've done anything wrong. You can swat them with a rolled up newspaper, and they still won't get it. So, you childproof your home as much as you can, making it difficult to get into your own cabinets and drawers and requiring you to unlock your own toilet every time you need to go.

Around the age of one they start walking. You can slow them for a while by pushing them down whenever they try to stand, but eventually, they'll pop back up and start furniture walking. Tying their feet together effectively keeps them from walking, but people get upset and make a big deal about that. Once they can walk, they're not only mobile, but fast! They sneak behind you and you wrench your back trying not to step back on them. They have no concept of safety nor respect for property. Anything you value must be keep four feet above ground level at all times.

Soon they turn two, terribly two. Two is a year of tantrums, defiance, and diabolical plotting. They rely on the fact that they're adorable and they calculate how far they can push you before you try to trade them in for a nice beagle. They make big screaming scenes in store for things they want and you can't smack them without someone taking umbrage and reporting you to the authorities. The authorities will give you a big lecture and threaten to take your child, however, that might not be such a bad offer depending on the kid.

Ages three, four and five are precious. They are a joy and in the euphoria of parental love. You forget everything they've done to you. These few years lock you in for the next levels of hell to come.

From age eight to 12, they're brats. Tons of attitude, always dissatisfied. They don't want to be seen with you and pretend they don't know you when you yell, "I love you, honey, have a good day!" from the car as you drop them off at school. You get lots of reports about how their peers have nice parents who do things for them, as opposed to you, who does nothing for them.

Then, 13. At age 13, an alien entity sneaks into your house at night and takes away your child and leaves a teenage android, a teenoid, in their place. Teenoids drain you of all your money. They don't communicate with you at all, but blame you because you don't understand them. You look at them and wonder where your precious little child went. The teenoid ate them. There's no question in my mind that the son in San Antonio was a teenoid monster who probably hammered at his parents until he go everything he wanted, including a drum set. I believe that poor father listened to bad drumming for hours on end. And when he swore he was gonna kill the kid, the mother, threw herself in front of the teenoid to save him.

Finally, the teenoid leaves their human body and around 21, your child reappears! It's so nice to see him again. And you spend your time and money helping him get started in life in the hope that he'll remember your sacrifices and choose a nice nursing home for you someday.

But sometimes, the children, in adult form, return to the nest. This 50- year-old son had come back home. And he was going to drum, just like when he was a teenoid. And mooch. I'll bet anything that he is unemployed, mooching off the old man. Drumming, mooching, eating all the food, borrowing money again, no wonder the old man lost it...

The moral of this story is, if you march to the beat of a different drummer, keep marching and take your damn drums with you.