So I come home for lunch to find a brand-new pair of basketball shoes glued to the front porch. Many strange things have ended up on the porch before, so I almost didn’t notice them. They seemed to glisten in the sunlight, so I reached out to touch them. The glue had sloughed off the rubber soles had solidified into tiny webs, but it still looked very sticky. I stop. Opening the front door, I ask the boy about the artwork on the porch.
“I was just waterproofing them.” he says, with all the teenage incredulity he could muster.
“OK. So why does it look like glue?”
He runs outside.
I walk into the kitchen and begin heating my leftover porkchop. I hear the door slam and look up to see him standing with a brand-new pair of basketball shoes glued to his hand. “What the hell is wrong with your spray?!” he yells. My fault again, I guess.
“Go get the can” I mumble, playing with my cold mashed potatoes. “What does it say?” Knowing full-well we haven’t had and spray silicone in the house for almost a year, I know what’s coming next.
He gets the can from the laundry room, frantically pulling his new shiny shoes from his palm. “I don’t know. ‘3M’… something”
“Jesus-Ch….. What do the BIG letters say?”
“Spray AD..HES..EIVE? Adhesive. So?”
I get that sinking feeling again. “Adhesive is glue, not water repellant! What is wrong with you?”
“But, it say’s ‘All–Purpose’ spray!”
He’s 19 years old. It’s bad enough to discover you’re a terrible parent, but worse to realize that your son will eventually become another story in a future ‘Darwin Awards’ book. I don’t go home for lunch any more.
