I’m not sure how it started—or how to end it—but my son has an addiction to professional wrestling. He wakes up in the morning ready to throw on a pair of skin-tight, thong-like briefs –like the pros wear—and fight anyone standing in his way. At 7 am, no one is in his standing in his way. In fact, I’m usually lying in my bed carefully covering my manhood and hoping he’s reverted back to the kinder, gentler, days of Barney and “I love you. You love me. We’re a happy family…”
No such luck.
Storming into our bedroom—weighing in at forty something pounds and wearing a nighttime diaper—comes the wrestler of the moment, John Cena.
Shirtless and snarling, CJ hurtles himself onto our bed throwing kicks and punches in the air. He then swings and misses and falls off the bed clumsily onto the floor.
“Just like his father,” my wife says.
Before my son has time to recover and reload, my wife interjects.
“Go pee-pee. Hurry up. ”
He pouts but acquiesces temporarily leaving us unscathed.
“Wait, I have to go.”
I race to the bathroom ahead of CJ stubbing my toe on the edge of the bed.
“Oh man, that hurt.”
I hobble into the bathroom.
My daughter bursts out laughing while my wife simply wisecracks.
“You didn’t see the bed?”
Like me, CJ is probably more dangerous to himself than anyone else. However, when CJ does connect, he hurts. I think it’s great that he’s so passionate about wrestling and collects all the action figures. I just wish he had a less violent interest, such as collecting tea cozies or being part of a quilting bee. Granted, this may lead to other issues later in life but at least I could walk around the house free from random drop-kicks, eye gouges, and flying leaps off the couch.
Ironically, when we signed him up for karate, he had no desire to participate in the class. In addition, his teacher says he’s great in school and doesn’t hit anyone or hide foreign objects, chairs, or ladders, in his cubby hole.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful that he behaves well in school but I can’t figure out why the bulls-eye is squarely on my chest (legs, groin, etc.). He also plays rough with his sister who’d much rather play dolls or dress-up than wrestle. It always starts out fine. However, after about 20 minutes of playing dolls nicely he begins slamming the dolls around and pretending they’re wrestlers. Shortly after, fighting starts and playtime abruptly ends.
Perhaps the best solution is to simply re-design our home as a schoolhouse so he acts at home the same way he does in school. Unfortunately, I think the school décor clashes with my wife’s Louis Vuitton bags. Therefore, I’m searching for the nearest quilting bee. However, it’s for me, not him. I’m hoping they can help me make a pair of thong-like, wrestler briefs so I can ready myself for the next 7 am smackdown.
Copyright © 2009, Brad Manzo