See here. I’m not saying I’m not a rotten father. For one thing, I use double negatives. That’s certainly no example to set for a child. But don’t be taken in by this “endangering the welfare of a minor” stuff that my overprotective wife bandies about.
The facts of the episode in question are as follows: it was Saturday morning, around 9. My Fair Lady had business that took her out of the house, leaving me in sole custody of The Little Chit. He is 6—a mature 6, I hasten to add. He was sitting on the living room sofa, wearing an old bathrobe of mine that looks like a dress on him, watching Transformers: The Movie. The first 12 times I saw the animated 1986 film, I actually enjoyed it, if only because it features such a goofy pool of voice talent, including Eric Idle, Casey Kasem, Judd Nelson, and Orson Welles. This was The Little Chit’s 63rd screening. I wasn’t in the mood.
“Saddle up, chief,” I told him. “We’re making a run to 7-Eleven. Daddy needs a newspaper and some coffee.”
His reply was something like, “Aw, Dad. This is the part where Optimus Prime fights Megatron. It’s my favorite part. Blah, blah, blah.”
We went back and forth, The Little Chit stressing that the Prime-Megatron showdown could neither be missed nor paused, me pleading for coffee. It is frustrating to be at loggerheads with a 6-year-old.
But then he asked the question. He said, “Why do I have to come, Dad?” Notice: he was the one who made the suggestion. Why indeed?
I thought about it for a minute, then said, “Fine. But you stay on the couch. Your foot cannot even touch the floor. Do not answer the phone. Do you understand? This is important. Look at me.” I waited until he looked at me. “I’m only letting you do this because you’re a big boy. And whatever you do, you absolutely can’t tell Mom.”
I was gone six minutes. There is a 7-Eleven right down the street. Eight minutes, tops.
And when I returned, there he was, still sitting slack-jawed on the couch, still watching Transformers, unharmed. Such a good boy.
That is how it went down. Those are the facts. And I’d like to underscore one of them: nothing happened.
Of course, The Little Chit told his mother what happened the second she walked through the door. He was eager to share news of his achievement. First time home alone and all. Hard to fault him.
But My Fair Lady! Goodness. She was not pleased. I could tell because she seldom uses swear words. And she used a few. With one word in particular, I’m fairly sure she invented a new part of speech. The upshot of her beef was that even though nothing had happened, something could have happened.
“I can’t deny that,” I said. “You’ve got a point. A catastrophic gas leak, for example, could have led to an explosion, and the whole house could have been consumed in a fireball. But, baby, we’re talking, like, a 1-in-a-million chance. Probably closer to 1 in a billion.”
“But why would you even take the chance?” she countered.
“Because I wanted a newspaper and coffee. I’ll take 1-in-a-billion odds any day of the week for a newspaper and coffee!” I said, raising my voice, signaling the point at which I knew I was in trouble. Nonetheless, I pressed on: “And, yeah, while I was driving to the store, I could have been mowed down by a runaway cement truck. It’s possible. The Little Chit could have been left alone here at the house, until Dallas Fire-Rescue used the jaws of life to pry my wallet out of my dead, bloody pants and found my ID and noti½ed you of the tragedy. But if that had happened, then I’d be a hero! By going to the store solo, I would have saved the boy’s life!”
She calls it “yelling.” I call it “speaking emphatically.” In either case, it didn’t work. My Fair Lady remained unconvinced. She said that leaving the boy alone like that was illegal and that if I ever did it again, she’d divorce me. She’s a good mother, but she’d make a lousy attorney. I looked up the law.
From the state attorney general: “The law provides few guidelines as to how long a child may be left unattended. … As always, the ultimate guideline for determining whether a child is being left unattended too long is whether the child suffers actual harm, or is at substantial risk of being harmed, due to lack of supervision.”
It feels good to be right all the time. But it probably feels crummy to be divorced. So I’ll do as she asked.
Anyway, soon enough, when I want a paper and coffee, I can send The Little Chit out to buy them. He’ll be ready to drive in, what, about four years?
