Familyhood by Paul Reiser

then it wasn’t so funny.”
    â€œRight. But you still didn’t tell me. You could have told me then, right?”
    His face starts to show emotion for the first time.
    â€œI was scared,” he acknowledges.
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œI didn’t know what you were going to do.”
    Among the many things I felt at the moment was oddly tickled that he still even had the capacity to worry about what his father thinks. I thought he had moved past that.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “Well, what did you think I was going to do?”
    He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
    â€œOkay—well here’s the rule now,” I say, deciding it’s time to be more clear, more firm. “You are not to take my phone without asking me first. And if I ever do , sometime in the future, give you permission to use it, you have to put it back where you found it when you’re done. Is that clear?”
    â€œYes.”
    And he looks like he feels really bad.
    Which makes me feel good, which in turn makes me feel terrible. I kneel down so we are eye to eye again.
    â€œLook,” I say. “I know that was hard to admit, and I’m really proud of you for telling me the truth.” (Never mind that it was only after I cornered him with unbeatable evidence; he still came clean. That’s got to count for something.)
    â€œThat’s not always easy, ” I acknowledge, “but honesty is always the best way to go in the end, isn’t it?”
    â€œYeah.” He mumbles, still looking down, wishing this was over.
    â€œOkay?” I ask.
    â€œOkay,” he answers, looking up and mustering a little relieved smile.
    We hug, and he heads out. My work in this town is done.
    He’s not two steps away, ready to enjoy his freedom, when my little guy turns back and, in the most casual voice possible, tosses out, “Oh, and you remember that thing with the car door?”
    I pretend I don’t. It’s been so long I almost did forget, but beyond that, I had committed to the lie of not knowing.
    â€œWhat car door?” I ask—another horrible acting performance.
    â€œYou don’t remember?” he says. “The little dent on your door you were upset about, and you didn’t know how it happened . . . ?”
    â€œOh yes, yes, of course. Yeah, that was weird. What about it?”
    â€œ I did that.”
    â€œ You did that?” I say, conveying what I think is just the right balance of disappointment tempered with a sense of “I must have heard wrong.”
    â€œBy accident,” he says. “I’m really sorry.”
    Very sincere, very honest. All I wanted from the beginning. I take him in another big hug, and thank him for his honesty. And remind him that coming clean is never easy—and that I am really proud of him.
    I then ask him—only half-joking—if there was anything else I should know, as long as the gates are open and the judge is in a forgiving mood.
    â€œNo,” he chuckles. “That’s everything.”
    He is happy. And relieved. And I am happy. Feeling very complete. Glad that—at least as far as my young son is concerned—all acts of thuggery and mayhem are accounted for.
    THE NEXT MORNING, he mentions he might be responsible for the sinking of a Japanese fishing vessel off North Korea a few months back. His mother claims to know nothing about it.

Congratulations
    I was watching a basketball game with my kids. Lakers against somebody.
    Now, watching by myself I might pay attention, I might not. But with my kids there, I’m more alert; I like to see what they know, what they take in, and to a ridiculous degree, I’m always on the lookout for any “teachable moments” that may present themselves. Any windows for discussion that I can use to broaden my children’s horizons, and in so doing, transform a perfectly nice, relaxing activity into a source of tedium and displeasure for them.