Please — Don’t Call Me Dad
It just didn’t feel right to have him call me Dad. In addition, I was his real dad’s assistant coach on the pee wee flag football team!
My wife, Diane, I and our three young kids, ( Bob, Patrica and Charlie) had recently moved into a new neighborhood. School had started for the kids but hadn’t interfered with their normal hectic sports schedule that was already in full gear. Diane and I were bouncing around on our own usual frenzied parental schedule. We were customarily busy driving the kids to their various practices, games and other activities. In addition, we squeezed in: juggling work, household chores and the rest of the challenges faced by most suburban parents.
We were slowly starting to carpool as we met more of the participant’s parents.
Diane and I use to joke; the more activities in which the kids were enrolled, the more parents we’d meet as potential friends. The scenario usually worked: kid befriends kid, parent befriends parent out of concern for the necessity of kids befriending good kids.
We were blessed with that — times three.
There was a little guy that our youngest son, Charlie, befriended on his flag football team. His name was Spike. His dad (also Spike) was the coach of the team.
