Posts Tagged ‘kids’

Time to fire up the dice again, tomorrow is Dungeons and Dragons Day. This jolly holiday, which in an amazing coincidence is sponsored by D&D game company Wizards of the Coast, brings together gamers from around the world to huddle in small comic book and collecgible card shops to rattle dice at each other and save the world. Sign up for official play is closed, but you can still gather around and gawk at the players or celebrate in your own home.

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We're past the celebrity baby births and news of Paris Hilton's new hip hop album, leaving only the seas of blood to complete the disaster trifecta, but I'm remaining optimistic because my youngest son has found true love and it's a wonderful thing to see.

James is 13-almost-14 and the change in him has been remarkable. Where once he was mainlining DVDs and living on Long John Silver's while playing Worlds of Warcraft for weeks at a time, now he has let those childish things fade away as he takes that next step towards manhood and focuses with laser-like intensity on the new love of his life: the Xbox 360.

I was astounded when he bought one a few weeks ago, mostly because he had managed to keep from spending any money since Christmas to afford it. This is roughly akin to a tree deciding to save its leaves until spring; James isn't usually aware that he's spending his money. It just occurs, the way a dog sheds. But this time he held onto every dollar with an iron fist, begging to do chores for some extra bucks (while still avoiding the usual chores he ostensibly gets an allowance for, of course) and selling everything he could bear to part with. It was inspiring to watch, and a little frightening.

Finally he was within range and he traded in his old Xbox and his Playstation II — once treasured, now only recyclable plastic — for credit to reach his goal. He watched the salesman bring it to him like a proud groom waiting at the altar. When we drove home he carried his new prize in his arms, cooing to it softly, and since then they've been inseparable. It's sweet to watch, really. I never knew he had such a romantic streak in him.

I'm not exaggerating, here. He's been showing pictures of it to friends. Coming up to brag to me for hours about how great it is. Discarding all the games and accessories from previous, lesser systems. Writing "Xbox 360" on all of his notebooks. Planning for future accessories together. At this point I'm just waiting for him to come up to me, with his Xbox and an awkward expression, and say, "Dad, we have to tell you something. . ."

Still, all in all I have to say this beats a girlfriend for him from any objective standpoint. Cheaper, ultimately; games may be pricy but they can be rented or bought used. He got the game he really wanted, "The Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion," on eBay; yes, I tried to explain the ironic appropriateness of using eBay to search for oblivion, but he just looked at me funny. And Xbox Online isn't any more a month than he would spend on cars or dates. Plus, we've had the Safe Gaming talk, so I'm not worried about viruses.

If anything, I'm envious. Did I ever have such a pure relationship? And you have to admit, tossing your old loves up on a counter to get credit towards a new one is pretty cool. Try that with girlfriends and they just get mad at you.

And what can girlfriends give you that an Xbox 360 can't? Speaking for a 13-almost-14-year-old boy, I mean. Adventure, amazing graphics, fast-paced excitement, golfing with Tiger Woods, flying with a WWII squadron. . . who could compete? Besides, in this relationship, he's completely in charge. Few girlfriends let you pause and pick up again later. He can change its face to match his room. He doesn't have to dress up for his Xbox, or even bathe. He can ask for advice from friends that actually works. It doesn't have in-laws to deal with. And the Xbox 360 comes with an instruction book.

All I know is, if some girl ever tries to get James interested in her, she better have a wireless controller.

We watched "Transporter 2" last weekend, and, as we do after every impossible action driving movie with cartoon physics, we talked about our own driving habits. I am constantly surprised at how many intelligent people fail to share my unshakeable belief: every other person on the road is purposely out to kill you.

Well, maybe not every person. I'm pretty sure the Road Ranger folks don't want to make any more work for themselves, and there are probably a few new drivers who haven't checked their glove compartments yet for my dossier and their nefarious orders.

But there's simply no other excuse for why my whole entire car seems to be invisible and tractor trailers race each other for the chance to cut me off. Maniacs ride my bumper and playfully nudge me towards the bridge railing. People race their engines at stoplights, anxious for their chance to T-bone me. Even squirrels wait motionless for hours before they leap out to make me swerve.

It wasn't always like this. When I got my first car I didn't drive defensively. Or offensively, or in any manner that indicated I was aware of exterior stimuli whatsoever.

Instead I treated my car as an auxiliary bedroom. I had my music, I had books stashed here and there, I had food and drink and usually at least two of my friends with me at all times. Driving was more like hanging out, but at great speeds. Other drivers, when I noticed them at all, were nothing more than background decorations that occasionally had to be navigated around.

On occasion I also used my car as an experiment in physics I happened to be sitting in, usually prefaced with the words, "Hey, I wonder if we could…"

That all changed in an instant the day I strapped in our son's child seat and I realized with a blinding flash that I was my child's sole defense against hordes of homicidal motorists. I've calmed down somewhat since then, but evidence still points to my theory.

On the other hand, my brother-in-law Rodger drives the way a careful, efficient person would drive if he was being chased by enemy helicopters. To my knowledge he has never raced up a conveniently angled tow truck bed and sailed over three SUVs filled with armed insurgents to land skidding on an overpass, but he always seems alert to the possibility.

To ride in my son Tony's car is to know that all the vehicles around you are contact explosive, like driving through a moving mine field. The temptation to yell "Bang!" just to see what would happen is overpowering.

My dad always drove with a specific goal in mind, with a specific deadline and a calculated amount of gas expenditure. Had a yak jumped out on I-95 playing "My Way" on a tuba he would have jogged slightly to the left and then sped up to make up the lost .068 seconds in drive time.

Most of my friends in school drove with a goal in mind too: the Winner's Circle. They were all Dale Earnhardt dropped onto a huge racetrack with traffic signals and a never-ending line of competitors to be outwitted, outraced, or simply bashed.

The one attitude I had a problem accepting was my wife's. Teres treats everyone on the road, against all evidence, as her best friend. When they stop suddenly, pull out unexpectedly, or just spin in place, she doesn't get mad because she knows they don't mean it. It just happens.

And you know, maybe she's right. Who among us can say we've never innocently taken out a mailbox, or reached to add ketchup to our fries and found ourselves skidding sideways 65 feet into a farmer's market? It happens. It's certainly a more positive way of dealing with traffic and you don't feel as worn out afterwards.

So I've decided to adapt this mental viewpoint. From now on I'll pause and wave drivers in front. I'll move to the slow lane to let faster drivers pass. I'll smile and gently nod and we'll all drive on a little bit happier, a little bit more at ease with ourselves.

But I'll secretly know what I'm really doing. I'm thwarting their evil plans.

And now I'm behind them.

This weekend my 13-year-old son took an important step in his development, a milestone that makes startling new hair eruptions and a drivers license pale in comparison: he bought his first set of role-playing game dice.

For the non-geek among you, gaming dice have anywhere from four to 20 sides, will direct every decision James makes for the next six years, and will quickly become more important to him than any three relatives. Their constant clatter will bring back fond memories even as I yell at him to keep it down.

For over 30 years now "Dungeons and Dragons," the game he is starting to dabble in, has provided a rich haven for kids who enjoy the wonders of a dangerously overactive imagination combined with the never-ending delight of arguments about weapons encumbrance.

Players become knights, elves, dwarves, clerics, and other fantasy figures while the kid who controls the game (the Dungeon Master, or DM) tells them exactly what's about to kill them all. Then they describe their reactions and, based on their individual abilities, character classes, moral alignments, birthmark configuration, and the roll of the dice, events transpire.

DM: "The orc swings a massive club at you, with 2d8+7 damage. The princess you've been sent to rescue is screaming and helpless."

James: "I throw the princess at the orc and dive for the gold. Do I get to it before she splatters?"

DM: (dice clatter) "No, she was so mad she grabbed the club away from the hulking man-beast and now she's beating you in the spine with it while he watches and offers pointers."

James: "Can I still reach the gold?"

Rather than staying pent up in their fetid bedrooms playing video games all day and night, kids stay pent up in their fetid bedrooms becoming someone better than themselves, or at least someone easier to draw. Dragons are fought, wars waged, the helpless saved, and treasure earned, all without risk beyond eyestrain and self-inflicted malnutrition. And, since kids from the last three decades are still playing it — you're never too old, no matter what my wife says — D&D is more popular than ever. This is because D&D teaches valuable life lessons, lessons that will serve you well for the rest of your life.

You learn how to recognize honor, nobility, and self-sacrifice in others, and how to capitalize on it.

You learn how easily the arbitrary whim of one person can drastically change your entire financial situation.

You learn how to placate and bribe that person to improve your prospects. Whether it's with a well-timed handful of Cheetos before a devastating battle or a well-timed kick into the rough so your boss can win the golf game, it's important to know how to handle yourself in a greed-based economy.

You learn to never invoke anything bigger than your head.

You learn the all-important phrase, "And in this one D&D game I was in," a phrase guaranteed to quickly end all of your many, many first dates.

You learn the insightful, transcendent state achieved by living on caffeine and sugar for six days without sleeping, a valuable thing to know come the end of the fiscal year.

You learn to turn your imaginary friends into valuable allies.

You learn that when a religious artifact begins emitting light, you should close your eyes. Thousands of people could be saved every year with this simple safety tip.

You form lasting bonds with friends that will last forever, although this can backfire in the middle of a tricky business merger when the opposing representative turns out to be the guy you shoved into a goblin cave back in '84.

You learn the importance of selecting ceremonial robes that are easy to run in while still affording ample concealment.

You learn that, for some people, rules are all that matter. And you learn how to confound those people.

And now my son will learn these vital lessons the same way I did: at 3 in the morning, surrounded by his weight in empty Doritos bags. Now he will rummage through my old, musty, gaming books, hunting for decades-old tips and storylines he can surprise his friends with. Now his dice bag contains some of my dice, as a way of passing the torch down through the generations.

Not my good dice, of course. I need those. There was this one time, in this game I was in…

This May my teenage son, Tony, complained about needing money during his summer break at UCF. My wife, Teresa, said, jokingly, "Hey, I'd pay you to take your brother away." Tony asked, in all seriousness, how much. And the Summer of Unexpected Delight began.

For a bit less than it usually cost us to board, feed, and amuse his 12-year-old brother, James, we offered to pay Tony to act as a one-boy summer camp. Provide a couch, Internet access, take him to the pool and to movies and generally keep him occupied. Arts and crafts were optional. Before either son could think this through we dumped James — along with his computer, his TV, enough gaming consoles to launch a successful invasion of the eastern hemisphere, a handful of clothes, and a toothbrush — at Tony's Orlando apartment and we drove off, laughing gaily and high-fiving each other.

We knew it couldn't last. We weren't entirely sure they wouldn't beat us home. Tony and James, seven years apart, have a healthy and spirited fratricidal relationship that would have fit right into any of your more common Greek tragedies. We fully anticipated seeing James back within a week, and then only if we changed the locks on the sixth day to slow him up. But hey, even a quiet afternoon would be a nice change of pace.

And then, the impossible happened. The boys didn't kill each other. Not even once.

We failed to realize just how desperately Tony wanted the extra money, and how much James enjoyed pestering the heck out of him without referees present. Somewhere in there a shaky ceasefire emerged, undoubtedly after many civilian casualties, and aside from a weekend home or two and the inevitable requests for more cash we didn't see either son for two and a half months.

It was glorious.

You see, in two decades of living together my wife and I have never, ever been alone for more than 24 hours unless surgical sedation was involved. From apartment to apartment to house, our home has always been crammed with family members, roommates, friends just crashing for a few congressional sessions, and kids, not all of whom were ours. Suddenly and without warning it was just … the two of us.

Try and comprehend this, fellow parents: when I came home from work there was, miraculously, the same number of drinks in the refrigerator as there had been when I left. Toys were not underfoot. Books and videos were oddly unstrewn. The TV in the living room stayed off for weeks. There were no mysterious and unaccountable jelly stains on the ceiling fan. No experiments involving the dogs, a bag of rubber bands, and a disposable razor. Representatives from the local emergency centers called periodically to make sure we were all right.

And, best of all, Teres was always waiting for me bright-eyed, cheerful, and hardly wanting to murder anybody at all.

Exciting and life-enriching things awaited our newfound freedom. The remodeling and the yardwork. Teres' art projects, and the writing I wanted to do. The yoga classes and fitness courses and horseback riding and traveling and oh, all the new things in our bright and uninterrupted future.

Of course we didn't do any of them. Mostly we snuggled up every night, picnicked on the bed, watched DVDs, and enjoyed the silence. Sometimes we would go out to a restaurant that didn't serve chicken fingers or hamburgers, and we'd just giggle to ourselves.

This has been, bar none, the best and least productive summer of my life. It was like a honeymoon, only without the bills and sunburn and embarrassing discoveries at Customs.

All good things must come to an end, thanks to unreasonable regulations regarding child abandonment, and so Camp Tony closed its doors and we welcomed James back home last weekend. I found I even missed the little guy until he started eyeing the dogs' fur.

Now we have school to get ready for, and clothes to buy and shots to get, and we huddle in our bedroom trying to identify where he is by the crashing sounds. But we have our memories of one glorious summer.

And we're saving for next year. I'll bet the boys would like Mexico.

Parents look forward to the wonderful, magical day when their child chooses a career. Endless opportunities are narrowed down to one lifelong field, where their child can go out and make his or her mark. Mine has decided to become a megalomaniac.

While my 12-year-old son James has always had leanings in that direction, the concept of supervillainy as a potential vocation didn't arise until he started playing "Evil Genius," the game where players strive to construct the perfect island lair, defeat pesky secret agents, and take over the world.

"Dad! I just stole the Eiffel Tower!" he said last weekend while I was faithfully performing my traditional fatherly duty of not doing a large chore. In this case, it was moving a bookshelf in his room so we could paint behind it, a task that would require the stacking of books, the cleaning of shelves, and the actual physical sweaty moving part. When he spoke up I was sitting on his bed, drinking my Coke and attempting to move the bookshelf with my mind.

When I expressed disbelief — the Eiffel Tower is, by all reports, even tougher to move than a bookshelf — he cackled and showed me his monument-shrinking ray gun. He then spent some time showing me around his evil headquarters. There were death traps, an army of minions, more bite-size national monuments, lots of bubbling chemicals, and stacks of Weapons of Seriously Mass Destruction.

James really did have a flair for this. And I realized that encouragement of a child's natural aptitudes is important, even if they do tend towards death rays.

After all, he'd need to apply himself more in school if he didn't want to end up as an evil fry cook. He almost balked at that, but visions of staggering wealth and power helped keep him motivated.

"Will I still need math? Can't I torture someone to do it for me, or build an 80-foot killer robot with a calculator in it? That shoots plasma beams?"

"Oh, no, you have to have a good grounding in math to calculate trajectories and to make sure your countdown timer is going the right way. Mad scientists need math, son. It's what separates them from mad sociologists."

Politics. Chemistry. Nuclear physics. Care and feeding of henchmen. Advanced electronics. How to exchange your enemy's brain with that of a gorilla. Mad scientists have to be versed in all these fields of expertise, although I admitted I wasn't sure which colleges offered the best evil genius curriculum. Are mad doctors with community college degrees looked down upon? Is that why they keep trying to blow up continents?

Fortunately I'm not worried about any actual world domineering occurring because he'd never create his own doomsday weapon if he thought he could get his mother to do it for him the night before his worldwide ultimatum was due. "Mom," he'll say. "Since you're up, could you take over the world for me? You're closer." Besides, judging from countless Christmases, even if he got the world he'd get bored with it in three days and lose it in his room somewhere.

In the meantime he's watching James Bond and Austin Powers movies, "Pinky and the Brain," and "The Apprentice," and taking notes on each evil wannabe's fatal mistakes. He can't perfect his sinister laugh until after his voice changes, but just yesterday he convinced the UPS guy to turn against his masters and serve only James. And he's working harder on his math.

I don't know where this will take him. I don't know if he'll suddenly pop up on CNN one day, laughing maniacally, in front of a map of Europe with big circles on it and the words "emergency evacuation" on the crawl, or if I'll lose contact after an unexplained mushroom cloud appears over the Kurile Islands. All I know is that as his loving parent I want James to be the best he can be and to go wherever his skills take him, even if it's a secret moonbase.

But if he does manage to conquer the world, he can send around a few minions to move this bookshelf for me.

Like many others these past weeks I've spent hour after painful hour clearing away debris, hauling trash, dealing with the lack of clean clothing, throwing away armfuls of spoiled food, and generally just trying to make the place habitable again. I'm exhausted.

Hurricane Charley? No, no. I cleaned out my son's room.

He started sophomorifying at the University of Central Florida this week. And, for the first time in his life, he's completely on his own. Well, he's completely on his own with three other guys who are also completely on their own, but he no longer lives at home.

Let me take a moment to savor that last bit. Ah. OK, I'm good now.

Unfortunately this meant that we had to spend the weekend drilling through the forty metric tons of memories he's been accumulating around himself since 1985 to form an impenetrable shell of compressed plastic, fabric, and Coca-Cola cans. Since he has never in his life actually thrown anything away, preferring to let new purchases tamp down the older ones, simply maneuvering in his room was a dangerous enterprise.

We began by digging towards his bed. Precautions were taken to avoid falling through treacherously thin layers of papers and Styrofoam, mostly by using safety harnesses attached to the outcropping of calcified Long John Silvers cups by his desk. Some careful backhoe work got us through the embankment of old homework papers and we were able to completely chip away his bed for future study.

My son performed his usual room-cleaning chores: he sat back and told me what to keep and what to throw away as I held up excavated items for his examination.

"Oh, wow! I haven't seen that in years, I've been missing that! You can toss it," is what he generally said about every souvenir, computer component, or ancient box of leftovers I produced. Not all of our finds were easily defined. We puzzled for hours over what appeared to be a brake lining for a 1997 Geo Tracker but was finally proven to be cake from his 11th birthday.

Cursory surface searching turned up several truckloads of aluminum cans (most still containing various quantities of solidified cola syrup), mounds of unreturned textbooks, a thick substrate of cheese-flavored snack food, and over $3,000 in loose change that we deposited towards the site's Superfund. The strata of sedimentary books, toys, and magazines that had been crushed behind his bed by intense pressure and heat over the past 18 years fascinated me, especially since many of them were actually mine.

Finally we managed to pull out just what he needed to survive in his new apartment, which we took over and dumped in a heap on his new floor, thus saving him the trouble of doing it himself over the next few months. I left him there, alone, to survey his new surroundings and to eat the cake.

That was two days ago and already I miss him. I hadn't expected that, not this quickly. It's not like it's any quieter without him, especially with his remaining brother campaigning for his room every thirty seconds using Power Point presentations and environmental impact studies. And UCF is close enough that he can come back whenever he wants, which he did last night to use my printer and get another meal.

No, I think the real reason I miss him is because it turns out I liked having him around, and no matter how much warning I had that this moment was coming, it still wasn't enough.

Besides, now I need help cleaning my room to make space for all the stuff I got back.

Don't come by our house when sunlight is spreading its golden glory. Don't look for us in the park, at the mall, or swimming at the Y. Don't even think about calling before midnight. Our family has become nocturnal.

Up until now it's been just our teenager that takes back the night. Every year after school let out he would start sleeping later and later until finally he was getting up just in time for dinner. From May to August he became a virtual recluse, a shadowy, shirtless figure glanced out of the corner of the eye during late night bathroom runs, a suburban myth who lives on canned ravioli and navigates via sonar and reflected television light.

By the second month his skin would be nearly translucent. The jeans he'd been wearing since graduation gradually hardened into a tough, protective shell. Over time the deposits of blankets and fast food wrappers in his bedroom would become a teenager-shaped cocoon from which he could strain nutrients while he stared at his computer monitor. He no longer needed to blink. Legends said he could only be killed by the rays of the sun.

During the rare times when our paths crossed he told us he prefered the night. It was quieter. Cooler. He didn't have to fight for access to the bathroom or TV or refrigerator. He could read or play video games for hours without interruption. His only problem was the abrupt shock of flipping his circadian rhythms back the day before the new semester, and that's how it's been for several years now.

Except this year he's not alone. Our younger son has begun to emulate him and his dawn-to-dusk lifestyle. At first he was doing it just to bug his brother but then he discovered that Cartoon Network's Adult Swim cartoons were the animated equivalent of independent film, only with more jokes about flatulence. Soon he too was snoring the day away.

As concerned parents we were, frankly, concerned, at least at first. But the truth is that things got a lot simpler once the kids joined the ranks of the undead. The house stayed quiet during the day. Our laundry dwindled to one load a week, including towels. My wife and I actually got to look at each other during meals. Once, we even had a conversation!

For once, summer vacation was a break for us as well. It was like sending the kids away to camp, only without paying for anything. Housekeeping was now a matter of flinging some slipcovers over their unconscious bodies and adding some throw pillows for style. A taste of early retirement.

Then, almost against her will, my wife started sleeping later and later. As a stay-at-home mom her schedule is largely defined by which kid she has to drive to what activity at what time anyway, and when they became denizens of the night she found herself helplessly following along. This behavior received a material boost from the Florida summer which insists on rollercoaster atmospheric pressures and daily thunderstorms that just scream naptime.

As the only one in the household with regular hours I became the family's ambassador to the waking world, running the daylight errands and dealing with the living. I wandered amongst their sleeping bodies, feeling like the maid in a funeral home, wondering if I should be turning them or something.

Instead, I started joining them on weekends.

It's wonderful. Our living room looks better out of direct sunlight anyway and there are never any phone calls to deal with. The VCR timer can handle any TV scheduling problems and DVDs, like cereal and pizza, can be enjoyed any time. I can walk to the car and back without breaking into a sweat. Walks around the neighborhood are bathed in silvery moonlight. And I can see my family again.

So far the only problem this has caused has been for the teenager, who's had to start getting up at 6 in the morning to get some time alone. Poor kid. He doesn't know what he's missing.

Most fathers probably receive thoughtful Father's Day gifts tailored to their interests and hobbies.

Clothes, electronics, tools, pounds of steak, that sort of thing. Instead, my 11-year-old son, Jamie, threw brightly colored tights at me and dragged me off into the streets where armed miscreants could shoot me in the head.

He bought me a copy of "City of Heroes," a massive multiplayer online role-playing computer game (also referred to as "MMO," "MMOG," "MMORPG," or "incredible time-waster") wherein you become a super-powered champion and fight the forces of evil in beautiful, thug-filled Paragon City right alongside any other superheroes that might be logged on at the moment.

Jamie, already a member, wanted nothing more than to fight for justice by my side, which is bonding, in a weird way. And so I became a defender of the helpless.

First you design your hero. "City of Heroes" has an amazing hero-generation system that allows you to select your heroic archetype, build, height, and costume, something that can easily take several days. Want robotic arms and harem pants? T-shirt, jeans, and a coolie hat? A business suit to match your broadsword? No problem!

Countless innocents suffered while I anguished over what pants to wear. Baggy? Flared? None? Those are the kinds of life-or-death decisions a hardened warrior has to be ready to face.

I chose the "Tanker" category (strong, durable, not terribly maneuverable, like a human Humvee), but elected to become a slender, 3-foot-tall female Tanker named Arathustra, just to mess with my son's mind.

Next you run through a tutorial that teaches you about the game and your abilities. What it taught me was that Arathustra had all the grace of a roller skating water buffalo, which was bound to impact on my crime-fighting abilities.

Paragon City is a detailed and entirely believable place with more abandoned warehouses, embattled rooftops, and casual street crime per capita than Miami, at least during the off-season. Jamie and I teamed up to arrest a marauding gang, which meant that he sliced them up like lunchmeat while I followed behind, watching my step. Turns out that "arresting" looks an awful lot like "personal assault" and there doesn't seem to be a lot of paperwork involved.

After he went to bed I spent some time righting the scales of Justice by myself, full of ambition and dreams of Justice League membership, and I discovered something almost immediately.

I am forever doomed to be a sidekick, and not the useful kind. It's actually possible that the level of crime in the game went up after I joined.

My fingers fumble over the keys. I can spend hours running around the city, lost, despite the helpful map and glowing "over here, stupid" arrows. I tend to fall off buildings. Victims hesitate before calling for my help, realizing instinctively that it would be quicker and less painful to just get mugged. In the heat of battle I have difficulties with the essential martial arts concepts of "left" and "right."

I'm the superhero the other superheroes have to rescue, over and over. In a superteam, I'd be the one hanging around the dog.

None of this is the fault of the game itself, which is disturbingly fun and quite capable of sucking up weeks of your life without warning. Combat is a blast, sometimes literally, and the graphics and levels of detail are amazing.

So I'm going to keep at it, because even pathetic champions have their place. I can serve to make those around me look good in comparison, just as I do at work. By rescuing me the other heroes will gain valuable experience points and interesting scars. And a laughing criminal is a vulnerable criminal. I just need to play to my strengths.

So look out, people of Paragon City! You are now protected by the might of … let's see … "The Loose Cannon?" "The Weak Link?" "The Boy Hostage?" "Captain Liability?"

This heroing stuff ain't easy, let me tell you. Now, which pants should I wear…

If you live in Florida and have a child of schoolable age, you might be in the midst of FCAT frenzy this week as the standardized test is wielded to make sure your kids know what they're supposed to know. And if you're like me, you're suddenly regretting that time you told them that wind is really tree gas.

I have always completely and thoroughly answered any question my sons have ever asked me, no matter how difficult, embarrassing, or inconvenient, with a total lie just to mess with their heads. That's just the kind of loving father I am.

It's one of the perks of being a dad. You have this wonderful child, bright and inquisitive, who trusts you implicitly in all things and will actually believe that airplanes fly because of giant rubber bands.

It starts innocently. You tell them about Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy to give them magic and wonder. When they're too young to understand complicated explanations you talk about babies and cabbage patches and storks with magical maternity ward access. Sometimes it's just to get some peace, like when you explain that mommy had to kill and skin all the groceries herself before she got home, so let's let her nap a while, OK?

Gradually you start doing it for the fun of it.

Lightning bugs are mosquitoes with flashlights. Grass is green because God thought it would accessorize well with the sky and make the Earth look bigger. Microwaves cook food by humming at it really loud. Presidents are chosen by mortal combat. The tide goes out to get away from ugly people in thongs. Kid-eating hallway snakes come out after bedtime. Beer is a special drink just for Daddies that makes you fat and balding (that one is actually true).

While lying to your child may seem cruel, a little creativity can make better memories. When my youngest son was 4 we took him to Disney World during a $20 deal for residents. We didn't find out until we got there that it was for kids only, adults were still full price. Fortunately he'd had so much fun on the ferry ride over to the ticket line that he thought that was Disney World. Good parents that we were, we went all out and took the monorail on the way back to the parking lot so he'd get the full experience, thus taking care of his Disney needs for another year.

It's not just a dad thing. Older siblings, delighted to be on the giving end for once, can come up with some doozies. And moms aren't necessarily to be trusted to clear them up, either.

"Mom! Did you really buy me from gypsies for $3 and a live chicken?"

"Of course not, dear," my wife said soothingly. "You know I don't pay retail. I had a coupon."

There are downsides, obviously. Your befuddled kids are likely to experience serious problems with fiscal responsibility ("Coins come out of my ears! Dad showed me!") and some extremely traumatic science classes later on, and you run the risk of coming home to find your child opening your $2,000 home theater system with a claw hammer so "the poor little musicians can get out."

But even though I feel a little guilty as my son faithfully bubbles in the answers he's learned from me — thereby dooming himself to remedial classes forever — I know he'll have his revenge soon enough, after I become senile and he can tell me all about the wonders of my new rest home. "You'll love it, dad! It's in zero gravity!"

And I'll believe him.