Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude

Filthie's Mobile Fortress Of Solitude
Where Great Intelligence Goes To Be Insulted

Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Ye Olde Manosphere: The Look Of The Father

Yesterday I pulled into the house to see ol' W's family rolling in. W lives a couple doors down from us in a very nice middle class home. He's a big wheel at my wife's church. His wife, D, is as nice a woman you'll ever meet.

W's son was home too - something very rare. The boy started rebelling against his parents, the law and everything else in his teens and became something of a juvenile delinquent. If I understand the gossip correctly he is in serious trouble with the law. Today he is a big tall man just like his father. He used to wear his hair long almost down to the crack of his ass but today he had a respectable crew cut that a lot of the kids still go for. Hmpfffff. You should never listen to gossip, I told myself.

Then I looked back at Warren and I saw that look as he watched his son. It was one of sorrow, regret and utter fatigue. It was the kind of look that said that at least some of the gossip about the boy was true. Then W noticed me watching him, gave his head a shake and pasted on a great big phoney smile and gave me a friendly wave. I returned them both. I must have looked something like that for years.

Boys, there comes a day when you stop being a father. It comes way too soon, and it can be a traumatic life experience. Even if that transition goes well it is an intensely painful one for the parents. You have to back away and accept that your kid has cast his or her lot, their destiny is their own and there's not a fuggin thing you can do about it! It's orders of magnitude harder to do with problem children.

With problem kids, you have two choices in how you go about this. If you're lucky, you can position yourself so that you're near when they hit the guard rails and you can help pick up the pieces. (That's all you can do - then you have to hand those pieces back to their owner and it is up to them to re-assemble them). Option 2 is distance. Some kids - errr, young adults - are so stubborn and hell bent on being deliberately stupid, that only Darwin, Murphy, time and experience can straighten them out.

W and D are on a plan. He worked for the city and now he's coming up on retirement and they are gonna sell their house and move back to their ancestral home in the Maritimes. Warren is doing something I had problems with: he's stepped outside of himself, he's looked at it objectively and he is going to live his life the way he wants to, now that his responsibilities as a parent are over. If the boy wants to fuck himself over - that's on him and him alone.

The classical dream is that ya have two kids, raise 'em right, put 'em through college and they move out and start a family of their own. You retire at 55 and sail off into the sunset. So whaddaya do when your family is in flames here on shore, and your yacht is bobbing on the waves at the end of the pier? W and D are going to get on that boat and sail away... and I've learned the hard way that that is the right call to make. I have my own sunset to meet. The World's Smallest Hanger is in shambles, I've run low on several calibres of ammunition and I gotta get the little camping trailer rigged and ready for the summer! What time have I for the problems of my kids?

Y'all keep yer stick on the ice - hold the kids close, but know when to let 'em go. Have a great Hump Day!


  1. Yeah, Glen; This is something I've tried to impress upon my wife. She has this expectation that the "kids" should be doing more with their lives, but never misses a chance to make an excuse for them not doing what's expected of grown men. I tell her that at some point, she needs to pull the tit; start being a "mother" as opposed to being a "mommy." She just doesn't get it. As long that udder is hanging there, full of milk, the kids are never going to learn to graze...

    1. It must be harder for mothers, eh, Pete? One of our lady friends was over last night and she was utterly horrified at the thought of leaving her 14 year old son alone at home. Hell's bells - we were all baby sitting at 12 when I was a kid...

    2. Indeed. Babysitting was a good gig. We got paid, and could "read" our Playboy mags without fear of discovery! The baby never said a mumblin' word.

      I saw a commercial yesterday on TV, advertising a <<>> minivan. You know there's something wrong when the dad unbuckles the kid from the car seat, the kid stands up, and damned near cracks his head on the headliner! Ahh, for the days when men were of steel, and ships were of wood...

  2. Some decisions don't come easy.