| Larry Powell: Thirty years later, father knows parenting continues 01/17/2001 By / The Dallas Morning News Pardon this bit of personal melancholy. My children turn 30 today.
Help me to a chair. Heck, help them to a chair. Thirty is no spring chicken. By the time you hit 30 ... well, I can't remember that far back. Make up your own punch line.
A decade-or-so ago, nearly every magazine and every newspaper lifestyle section in the country had first-person stories by yuppies who had become parents. They wrote as if they'd invented children, breathlessly discovering drool and other things babies produce.
These sudden experts cranked out reams of copy decrying old methods and citing proper child-rearing technique as if every kid fit neatly into a handbook profile. They knew what to do when any kid threw a tantrum, what to do when any kid threw a plate, etc. "Time out" ring a bell? (Before that, parents skipped the "time out" and rang the kid's bell!) Or, "Use your indoor voice." The ol' reliable "Shut up!" they said, sent the wrong message. To me, "shut up" was the right message, but I was never father of the year.
By now these experts may suspect they were premature in declaring (a) all child-rearing problems solved and, consequently, (b) world peace. Some of their solid theories of parenting may have risen up and bitten them in the ... well, the pocketbook – it's not cheap to get teenage Little Johnny out of a traffic ticket jam or to get Little Susie out of stir after a shoplifting arrest. There's your ultimate "time out" – the pokey. Don't use your "indoor voice," use your "in custody" voice.
No doubt even as this appears, an ex-yuppie/parent scribe is working on a book titled After the Glow: What To Do When Your Baby Hits 30 and You Still Get the Bills. It'll include stress-reducing exercises and diet and stock tips.
Here's a parenting truth: I haven't had a good night's sleep in 30 years. After my kids arrived, I never hit the sack without wondering whether they were OK. I'd rise in the wee hours to make sure they were breathing or to make sure they hadn't crawled out of their beds and gone joyriding in our 1970 Chevrolet Malibu. Ah, it was deep blue with a white vinyl top and a big payment. I swapped it for a cheap, cringe-green Vega – it was either have a cool car or kids. But, I bitterly digress.
The twins – and that brings up another sore spot: Two doctors forecast one baby. Ha. Bret, whose name had already been picked, was born at 2:06 p.m. on Super Sunday, Jan. 17, 1971 – and Bart was born at 2:08. If you call one kid "Bret," fellow fans of the TV show Maverick, what do you call the surprise child? Besides, you're still stunned that your family has just doubled. In 1971, newspapers didn't give raises based on the number of kids – not that they do now.
Oh, Super Sunday? Yes, the beloved Dallas Cowboys lost their first Super Bowl, 16-13, when Baltimore kicked a field goal with five seconds left.
I missed the entire game – never saw a down. After 30 years, I'm still bitter.
Unexpected Super Sunday twins are an eternal shock. But I still smile like I'm goofy at the vivid memory of those tiny, brown-eyed, dark-haired rascals looking up from one little crib just outside the delivery room. Gosh, I'd love to hold those babies one more time.
There they were, my future – bad cars, no sleep, unexpected expenses and, now, this trauma: Bart and Shanna are going to make me grandfather this year.
The due date is April 1. Honest. April Fool's Day. The doctors swear there's one little girl. One. I've fallen for that before. And I'll stay awake worrying about her. After 30 years, some things are habit.
Larry Powell can be reached at 214-977-8487; P.O. Box 655237, Dallas, TX 7526 or via fax at 214-977-8319.
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