This afternoon I decided that I should really sort through the ginormous pile of papers that the boys have brought home from school recently because that’s probably a better clue to what they’re learning than just relying on them to tell me what they’re doing all day.  And also the big pile was taking over the bar which makes it hard to mix a cocktail.

Priorities, you all.

Charlie’s heap consisted mostly of various pictures of things that start with L and lined paper where he’d written his name and the alphabet; Henry’s pile was larger (hello second grade) and also more sophisticated.  He had one sheet where he was asked to write about a friend; he wrote about Charlie and how they liked to play soccer, and drew a picture of the two of them with a soccer ball.  He also had filled in a sheet of information about himself — what he liked to eat and read and do.  And the very last line said, “When I grow up I want to be …

Henry wrote “in the Army.”  Well okay then!  Although in this day and age I would be more inclined to encourage medical school, say, or computers or OH ANYTHING THAT DOES NOT INVOLVE FIGHTING IN A WAR.  But maybe that’s just me.

Anyway, that reminded me of this:  when I was growing up, we lived in Albuquerque.  My parents belonged to the Officer’s Club at the military base, and we would to there on Sundays for brunch and during the summer to swim at the pool.  When you drove through the gate into the base, the guard checked your pass; since my father was a civilian, we usually just got a wave, but one year he got the wrong stickers and apparently the guards thought he was a general or something because we always got the full salute.  My brother and I thought that was so cool.

My brother was about five then and was fascinated by the guard and his uniform and probably his gun.  One Sunday, on the way to brunch, he announced that he wanted to be a base guard when he grew up.  My dad hemmed and hawed and said, “Well, you know, they don’t make much money,” probably because that was easier than explaining to a five-year-old that the kid at the gate would be one of the first ones deployed if we ever went to war and also because my brother was a miser and never spent a DIME if he didn’t have to.

John thought about this, and then said, “Well, how much?”

“Oh I don’t know,” my dad said, “Maybe $5,000.00 a year.”

And my brother said, “WOW!  FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!  THAT’S A LOT OF MONEY!!!”  Which wasn’t really the response my dad was hoping for, but you know, when you’re five, it is a lot of money.

I learned my best parenting tricks from them you know.