I'll Be There For You

75 Weeks

I love stand up comedy. I love it a little too much. Some people listen to music, I have comedic monologues in my ears whenever I have the opportunity. This habit has desensitized me to certain situations and I tend to find humor in surprising places. Sometimes that is good, sometimes I'll get fired.

At a certain point, having a child means your weekends are about birthday parties. Every weekend. It's fun to watch the kids play and it's nice to meet new adult friends, however, the parties can feel repetitive after a while. Not unpleasant, but also not that entertaining. (Like watching old Friends episodes.) There is only so much pizza, cake, and donkey tails a person can absorb before tuning out.

And then sometimes the Universe hands you a gift. (Like a never-before-seen all-singing episode where Joey goes temporarily blind.) A dear friend and new mom was hosting a birthday party for a young family member in their back yard. They had built an obstacle course complete with a zip line, a tire swing, and a trampoline finale, all for about a dozen tween girls and their siblings. Fun party. Beautiful weather. Lots of cool parents standing around with beer in their hands.

Like out of a movie, the birthday girl grabs a megaphone and sweetly thanks her parents for the day. She then demands the parents join in and compete on the course, "for all of those nights you didn't let us stay up or have seconds of dessert." Adorable. Perfect. Her halo glistened and John Williams' score was cued. For a second, things feel a bit strained as no adults jump up at the chance. We're all so... satisfied. A little sleepy from the end of the week, a little relaxed from the beverages, a little happy to be among the youth running through the grass like we used to do. The world is good and safe and the sun is setting. It's too quiet. Her father yells out. "I'll go!" We all cheer. A mom near me suggests he be our representative. The rest of us agree and within minutes we are shouting his name, impassioned he be the body of our generation. We're off the hook. We won't get a migraine from running for the first time in three years or blow out a knee from trying to do something we last attempted on the monkey bars in elementary school. Go. Dad.

He swings on a rope. He zigzags around some cones. He looks good. He's doing us proud. We can do it. We're not that old. We're cool. We're young-ish, old-ish, modern breeders. We're outside. We got this. He dives head first through the tire swing and for a second, looks a little stuck. No. He's not stuck, he's fine, he's wriggling free. His fingers touch the ground. He's tipping over. Well... he'll just slip through awkwardly, hit the ground and dust himself off. It might not be graceful but he'll get there. Go Dad. Go! You're our guy! You got this! And he's still stuck. He's still wiggling. Wriggling. He's upside-down now completely and... well... there is his bare ass, everyone. He dove through the tire and the tire took his pants. He hits the ground as expected, and it's over as quickly as it happened. Kudos to him and his spirit—he keeps going, unbeknownst to his people, his tribe, us parents, who are laughing so hard we are crying. Strangers hugging strangers wiping each others tears. He keeps running and wins.

It was so absolutely perfect, if it had been on Friends, it would have become the new "jump the shark." "Tire swing ass." No one would have believed it. I couldn't remember a time when I'd laughed as hard (at an appropriate moment). We were handed a gift, a communal gift just for us. Thank you, Dad. Happy birthday to... Gen X.