Our children always think they...
Illustration
Our children always think they are smarter than we are. We know that's true because, contrary to what my children believe, we were once teenagers. Take Pete for example. He's a father now, but he wasn't always. He was a teenager growing up with an unreasonable, out-of-date, old-fashioned, and oppressive father.
When Pete turned sixteen, he got his license and was given limited car privileges. The limits were that he could use the car if his parents weren't using it. He had a curfew; he had rules he had to follow behind the wheel, and most of all he had to listen to his father say, "Have a good time and don't speed," whenever he handed Pete the keys to his 1971 Ford Pinto.
One fateful night, Pete picked up three buddies and headed out for a Friday night of pizza and fun. Pete and his friends were good kids who didn't get in trouble much, but even a good teenager is still a teenager, and temptation is still temptation. That night when one of the friends asked, "How fast do you think this hunk of junk can go?" the memory of his dad's little lecture evaporated. They were driving toward Coyote Hill on a long and straight, gradually sloping road that led to the top. Another buddy said, "Bet you a dollar it can't even go 80 miles per hour!"
That's when Pete asked, "Uphill or downhill?"
"Downhill!"
"You're on!"
At the top of the hill, Pete turned the car around and floored it as they raced back down the road. As the needle inched over the 80-mph mark, Pete shouted, "You owe me a buck!"
A fraction of a second later, they passed the cop at the bottom of the hill, and in the dawning recognition that he was in a lot of trouble, Pete remembered his father's lecture, "Have fun and don't speed." In retrospect, "Have fun and don't speed" sounds a lot like "of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat." There is something in our human nature that leads us to believe we are smarter than our father.
When Pete turned sixteen, he got his license and was given limited car privileges. The limits were that he could use the car if his parents weren't using it. He had a curfew; he had rules he had to follow behind the wheel, and most of all he had to listen to his father say, "Have a good time and don't speed," whenever he handed Pete the keys to his 1971 Ford Pinto.
One fateful night, Pete picked up three buddies and headed out for a Friday night of pizza and fun. Pete and his friends were good kids who didn't get in trouble much, but even a good teenager is still a teenager, and temptation is still temptation. That night when one of the friends asked, "How fast do you think this hunk of junk can go?" the memory of his dad's little lecture evaporated. They were driving toward Coyote Hill on a long and straight, gradually sloping road that led to the top. Another buddy said, "Bet you a dollar it can't even go 80 miles per hour!"
That's when Pete asked, "Uphill or downhill?"
"Downhill!"
"You're on!"
At the top of the hill, Pete turned the car around and floored it as they raced back down the road. As the needle inched over the 80-mph mark, Pete shouted, "You owe me a buck!"
A fraction of a second later, they passed the cop at the bottom of the hill, and in the dawning recognition that he was in a lot of trouble, Pete remembered his father's lecture, "Have fun and don't speed." In retrospect, "Have fun and don't speed" sounds a lot like "of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat." There is something in our human nature that leads us to believe we are smarter than our father.
