One of the greatest curses of all time is that of parents to their children, "Someday you're going to have a kid just like you!"
When our children are little, this warning falls on deaf ears. After all, when you're eight years old, the reality of having children of your own is the temporal equivalent of "the twelfth of never."
But the real fun comes when our children are grown, and become parents themselves. We are expecting our first grandchild this year, and I'm already plotting my revenge.
I can see it now - both parents rolling their eyes at me and little Tipper, grimacing to each other. Tipper and I are looking quizzically at his Mom (my daughter) as if to say, "What? It's only a couple of water pistols."
"Not in the house while I'm cooking," my eldest will bark in her finest imitation of me twenty years ago, as she removes the water pistols from our damp fists.
"C'mon, Tipper," I will say, "Let's go down to the store. Mi-Ma will buy you something with batteries."
I'm looking forward to the first Halloween when I can get Tipper an electric, glow-in-the-dark monster mask and costume that demands candy or it spits toilet paper rolls.
"You will NOT encourage my child to T.P. people's houses!" my daughter will insist while I "seed" Tipper's trick-or-treat bag with bubble gun, whistle candies, and orange fireballs that turn your tongue black.
"Don't worry. Everybody on this block is a grandparent. We'll just T.P. the principal's house."
"Absolutely not," Tipper's mom will insist as she locks her entire stock of toilet paper in the fireproof file cabinet.
"You're not much fun anymore," I'll tell her. "C'mon, Tipper, let's go to the store. Mi-Ma will buy you some Confetti-In-A-Can and that disappearing spray paint. Then we can something for your mom. Preferably something packed in those little, tiny, styrofoam snowballs."
Or maybe I'll buy him a gift certificate for sky-diving lessons for his twelfth birthday.
"You are not going to have MY twelve-year old son jumping out of a perfectly good airplane!"
"What if it's not a perfecty good airplane?" I'm thinking of my friend who has an old crop duster.
"Mother-r-r-r-r!"
"OK." Silence. "What if it's on the ground?"
"No!"
"OK. We'll just practice. We'll jump off the roof."
"I don't think so!"
"Well, why do you think I bought him the trampoline? C'mon, Tipper, let's go to the store and ..."
"Mom! Stop right there!"
"It's OK, honey," I'll tell her. "I'm just going to get him a little something we looked at yesterday. I promise - no batteries or bubble gum."
"Yeah, Mom!" Tipper will pipe in. "Go-carts run on gasoline!"
Ah-h-h-h, sweet revenge.
