Being A Dad

 
 
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When you're raising boys, there are certain things you know they're going to show interest in eventually - chicks, beer, video games - you just don't know when it'll happen. So far, in my experience, it's always earlier than you anticipated. (Note to self - pick up a six-pack on the way home. We're running low.)

But of all the things I was somewhat prepared for, I have to admit that professional wrestling didn't make the list. And I guess it should have because both Jackson and Griffin are completely obsessed. 

I only had a brief interest in wrestling when I was growing up. Of course then it wasn't the media empire it is today. Back then it was on Saturday afternoons and it was just one match after the other - very little backstory, very little drama. 

Obviously today it's quite the spectacle and most of it (particularly the stuff going on outside of the ring) is wildly inappropriate for young kids (or unappropriate, as my kids sometimes say which I like to think means "super inappropriate".) 

At any rate, I figured we were safe as long as we didn't let them watch it on TV. What I hadn't figured was that Vince McMahon and his cronies were holed up in a lab somewhere in search of ways to entice young fans. And of course the answer was toys. Rumblers, to be precise. If you don't know what they are, spend a few moments at my house and chances are you'll step on one. Or twelve. The toys, of course, are the gateway drug to what lies ahead. So while my kids have seen only a few snippets of actual wrestling, they're still fully versed in the wrestling universe - in other words, they can smell what The Rock is cooking. 

So now we're inundated with facts and figures and endless questions about mysterious figures like The Undertaker, Shamrock, The Miz and most of all, John Cena, who seems to be the Pied Piper for adolescent boys. For the record, John - I can "see" you - I just don't know what the big deal is. 

Of course there's nothing we can do about any of this except to bide our time and wait for whatever the next obsession is and cross our fingers that it doesn't entail a trip to the emergency room. 

 





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