Growing Up

My folks had me the old-fashioned way: on accident. It didn't come as a total surprise because they were both taking a fertility drug called Budweiser.

"Warning: Consumption of alcohol may cause and subsequently complicate pregnancy."

Mom strollered me around as one might the Stanley Cup, announcing my age to strangers: "He's 52 months, 3 days, 42 minutes, and 12 seconds ... 13 ... 14 ..."

You can imagine my separation issues down the line. We lost our fourth and final babysitter when I threatened to stab her with a fork. Plastic. Mickey Mouse.

That same night my sister, also in protest, held her breath until she fainted. So it goes.

I found myself defending Mom's honor in the sandbox: "You take that back! My mom is so a virgin!"

I loved Dad, too, if only for lines like these:

"Yes, son, you can mow the lawn tomorrow, but then you will have finished it yesterday."

And later: "No, I distinctly said that if you mow the lawn, you can halve your allowance. That's why we ask for things in writing."

One day Mom asked me to grate the cheese and I, fresh from smart-ass camp, gave it a C+. "It tastes all right but smells like Aunt Sandy's breath."

The truth is that I barely qualified for the long bus. One morning, I refused to get on the bus at all because I didn't recognize the driver. He finally chugged away while I shouted for the others to save themselves.

As a skinny dude, I met all the bullies. To this day I can, from a mile off, hear someone coughing up a loogie. One day Jimmy Bitzer offered a knuckle sandwich in exchange for my Twinkie, so I had to take up arms. And teeth.

Principal Burger -- "Cheeboiga-Cheeboiga" -- was not sympathetic...

"Jason, I am not going to argue the semantics of biting. Whether or not you penetrated skin, I'm calling your parents."

Burger was still sore from my letter-writing campaign a season earlier. Would you believe that at Wildwood Elementary it was okay for girls to wear skirts but not for boys to wear shorts? In a Jerry McGwire moment, I stayed up all night -- ten o' clock -- challenging the leaders to "review their ridiculous policies."

The tyranny ended two years later, which inspired me to question other persecution...

"Why do we have to make our beds when we just sleep in them again later?" To underscore my point, I slept for a week on the wooden floor wearing only my shorts.

My parents granted me the freedom to be whatever I wanted in life, but they were hoping I might be a lawyer. As it turned out, I had trouble passing the bar. Especially during happy hour. HEY-oh.

Looking back, my folks deserve a medal for not killing me. Jason was a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Even when my parents put me to bed, I'd boomerang back an hour later: "That part of me that likes ice cream won't fall asleep."

But for all of the hoo-hah, I've grown up to be a reasonably intelligent man who can step onto any bus without even meeting the driver. For this, I am grateful to my dear parents. And to Budweiser.