This Friday is my wife’s birthday. What will we be
doing? We will wedge all of our vacation gear into the back of the car and
leave the house around 10 am for the white knuckle thrill ride that is I-95
north to Princeton, New Jersey. 5 hours and several near death experiences
later, we will check in to our hotel, rest a bit, then get dressed for my son’s
choir concert. He has been taking part in some sort of advanced choral workshop
thing with all these high powered choral big shots from all over the country
for the past two weeks and they will display the fruits of all their labor
Friday night.
It just so happens that the Dunnevant family
vacation of 2013 begins Saturday, in Hatteras, North Carolina, which means,
that after this night of singing and frivolity, we will add Patrick and his
suitcase to the back of the car, and make the 8 and a half hour drive from New
Jersey to the Outer Banks. Why would we do such a thing? Why not make him drive
himself? Why not fly him down?
Well, my friends, here’s the deal. This side trip to
Jersey serves three noble purposes. Number one, it saves Patrick’s very old and
hanging by a thread car the pain and agony of a sixteen hour drive in 1000
degree heat. Number two, it saves me the pain and agony of having to be a part
of the famous Dunnevant beach convoy, where 5 cars turn a 4 hour drive into an all
day scenic tour of the finest bathrooms between Richmond and Hatteras. But
lastly we do it because we have no real choice. We can’t afford to miss the
concert.
Half of parenting is just showing up. If your kid
has a ballgame or a play or a concert, you make sure your fanny is in a seat
watching it. There are no excuses for not being there. When I hear some guy
say, “my kid is in a play tonight and I wish I could be there, but I have to
get this proposal ready. Ha, somebody’s gotta pay the bills,” I usually say, “you’re
a fool.” No, seriously, I say that to his face, because it’s total garbage. The
entire debate between quality or quantity time is complete garbage. If it’s
important to your kid, it better be important to you or you’re a garbage
parent.
So, Pam and I will make a ten hour detour to hear our
son sing his heart out in a chapel at Westminster. Somewhere along the way we
will celebrate the birthday of the woman who brought him into the world,
perhaps at a rest stop in Pisquataway.
Break a leg, son.
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