Birthdays are pretty crappy these days, these years. There'll never be a party like my twenty second, never a present like that little box video game I got when I was 10. Christmas day, New year's eve, St Patrick's Day, all a load of shite. I normally work on March 17th and make the fuckers climb to Banana Republic and sprint to the Sick Bed of Cuchulainn. New Year's peaked in Carlow back in '95, and even then it was a senseless, sickly day. And the consummation of this eight week orgy of lemming like consumption which we are currently credit carding our way through? Just a day, just another fucking day with the tiresome addition of sherry and familial commitments.
But folks there is one day to which I look forward all year long. And in 2007 that day is today. This very afternoon susposably at 2.55 but more likely sometime closer to 3.30, Common Law and I will attend Riker's parent teacher meeting. And maybe this year her teacher will not tell us that we are the parents of a smart, hard-working and well behaved child. Maybe this year there will be no mention of her enthusiasm, her creativity, her kindness. Maybe this year the news will be bad. Yeah, and maybe Bertie ain't a beater.
The trill of anticipation will last all morning and the glow of satisfaction will linger for days. The satisfaction is born of what I will tell myself is a job well done, though deep down I sense that the persistent playschool punch ups of her, shall we say, feistier sister Data, indicate that all this Rikerly good behavior is considerably more about the nature than the nurture. But who fucking cares either way? Not Gimme. Our Gimme will be courting proud and smug for the foreseeable. ..
An afterthought: The odd thing about this year's seven minutes of heaven (the winners only get seven minutes folks, the losers are the ones holding up the show) is that both Common Law and I have yet to meet the teacher. I can't help but wonder if this latest mentor, this senior side swami is, well, hot. Just one more thing to look forward to.