My daughter is eight years old and she thinks I’m a moron.
She also thinks I hate her, but that is beside the point. Sort of.
I think my baby girl suffers from early onset teenager syndrome. I can tell because everything I do either embarrasses her or is just stupid.
She thinks that all of my clothes are boring. She doesn’t care that I got to meet Duran Duran, or that one time I was in an opera or that I have driven across the country. She rolls her eyes at me when I say that I’ve been to Tahiti or know the person on the cover of Good Housekeeping. It does not impress her that I have performed at the Kennedy Center or that I made two babies at the same time. She does not care that I can spell Nebuchadnezzar or pronounce Muhammed-Kabeer Olanrewaju Gbaja-Biamila.
I actually think she hates it when I rattle off where everyone in the NFL played college football.
But you know what I did this morning that blew her little mind?
This is a true story. I moonwalked between making breakfast and packing her lunch and suddenly I was awesome. Both children were amazed at my mad skills.
I never thought I would say this, but thank you Michael Jackson. Thank you the 1980s.
Who would have ever guessed that the week I spent in front of my TV figuring out how to moonwalk would have come in handy? Not me. That is for sure.
I’m not exactly sure what the lesson is here? You should learn to breakdance before you have children? My kids have messed up values? Pop music has virtue?
I think the lesson here is this: you never know what will impress an eight year old.