My son Ethan and I were watching WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY last night – the old school version with Gene Wilder, not the new, awful one by Tim Burton. After observing the film’s gorgeous ending where we find Willy Wonka, Charlie Bucket and Grandpa flying around in the glass elevator – my son commented not on the family-is-the-most-important-thing message of the film, it’s delightful even campy feel, but rather that he would like our swimming pool drained and filled with chocolate pudding. I watched as a dreamy quality came over his face. He was having his Sugarland Express out-of-body experience, and I was left with the body.

“You know Daddy,” he said meditatively “Sugar is my best friend. I wish the whole world were made of sugar so I could eat it.”

In that moment, I realized that Ethan was a junkie. A true, dyed-in-the-wool junkie that would easily slit your throat for a red velvet cupcake or a moon pie. His obsession is deep and ugly. It manifests itself in characteristic junkie behavior such as sneaking extra mouthfuls of cake at birthday parties, ‘fair trades’ of his healthy snacks at school for nasty Pudding Pops, and even stooping to eating stale crumbs from our forever-empty cookie jar. George and I rarely give Ethan sugar as he metabolizes it poorly. His ingestion of sugar is not what you would expect – it does not make him hyper or overly energetic. He first becomes impossibly irritable (like an angry drunk), then emotional (like a weepy drunk), and finally sleepy (like all the drunks in my family). We’re Jews – and as we all know Jews can’t drink. Give us two glasses of Manishevitz and you’ll find us passed out under the glass and chrome coffee table after a furious fight over who Zada and Bubby loved more. It never fails.

At one infamous family get together (my grandmother’s funeral) – my inebriated younger sister announced her preference for sleeping with African American men. This came as quite a shock, as at that particular moment we were discussing whether Grandma Sadie should be buried in the pink shift dress she preferred or the smart blue suit that made her look like school marm. My sister’s pronouncement was all the more shocking as we had recently come to learn that she was gay.

No one said anything as none of us knew what to say.

An uncomfortable moment passed and then all our eyes turned towards my father who had raised an imaginary glass to his mouth as he grunted ‘glug, glug, glug.’ A knowing look came to my relative’s faces. They’d all seen this many times before. Poor girl, they must have thought, Jews just shouldn’t drink! Remember Aunt Dot at cousin Randal’s Bar Mitzvah? How about Uncle Abe at Shelly’s wedding – beyond belief! Oy vey -such a shande! My sister’s statment meant to be provocative and disturbing, dismissed as one-to-many White Russians.

My son had returned from his sugar fantasy.

“Dad,” he asked “Are you ok?”

I gazed at my son lovingly and said, “I’m in the mood for some chocolate chip cookie dough, how about you?” My son glanced at me as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. A moment passed, a smile crossed his lips and he asked tentatively “Let’s not even bother to bake them this time, we’ll just eat the raw dough until we get sick, ok?”

“Sure.” I said

My son leaped off the sofa and raced to our kitchen. Like any good user/enabler, I readied myself for the fighting, crying, and pleading that was to await me after our cookie dough pig-out. While our mixer turned the dough, my son became hypnotised by the heady smell of sugar, flour, and chocolate. I knew what I was doing was wrong. I wanted to stop, but just couldn’t. The dough had finally finished mixing and we dove into the bowl. It was every man for himself and my son put up a fierce battle. He shoved whole fistfuls of dough into his mouth and labored to swallow them. Concerned he might choke, I insisted he slow his attack.

We finished half the dough when my son began to tire. We both sat on the floor, nautious and fatigued but pleased we had satisfied our shared addiction. I tried desperately to remember that 12-Step serenity prayer – but couldn’t.

Some of you poor souls have already read this story, but I felt like a good Louis Vuitton bag, sometimes this shit just gets better with age.  Enjoy! – TRD (The Reluctant Dad, not Turd you bitches!!!)

Years ago, when my son Ethan was a toddler and attended preschool, I used to really dread the hours between 4-6 pm each day; for this was the time that he returned home from school famished and hyper-stimulated. With babies, this time of day is commonly referred to as the ‘witching hour’ as babies tend to get cranky and no matter how much cooing, swaddling, or comforting you do, they still scream their heads off. Our son Ethan, entered this stage and never left. I now call that time of day ‘The Bitching Hour’ because my son does nothing but complain, whine and make cunning observations.

“Daddy, I don’t like this snack.” “Daddy, I want a play date.”

“Daddy, you’re too old to wear that outfit – it’s embarrassing.”

In the old days, when George and I first brought Ethan home from the hospital and the ‘witching hour’ would approach, did we soften the lights, turn on the Mozart, and try to create a restful, relaxing atmosphere? Of course not. We handled that unpleasantness the old fashioned way – we got fucked up. With Ethan stashed securely in the Baby Bjorn, George got incredibly adept at mixing Apple-tinis (remember them?) and we would get properly hammered. To further combat the tedium of our circumstances, we would invite a different gaggle of friends over each night and host rousing cocktail parties in Ethan’s makeshift ‘nursery’ which coincidentally turned out to be our wet bar. I believe that Ethan’s first words were ‘jigger,’ ‘extra shot’ and ‘Grey Goose.’

In addition to the ‘witching hour’ cocktail parties, to pass the time Baby Ethan and I developed a series of bizarre, semi-sadistic games that for some reason kept him incredibly entertained. I once read in that frightening ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ book new parents should play Peek-A-Boo and talk baby-talk with their newborns because it somehow helps with their speech and face recognition development. I don’t know what developmental skills my son acquired while we played ‘push-daddy-off-the-really-high-king-sized-bed,’ or ‘hit-daddy-in-the-head-with-a-Playskool-mallet,’ as well as ‘pull-daddy’s-hair-until-his-eyes-water’ but our son certainly seemed to enjoy himself.

Now, that our son is six year’s old, 4-6 PM has become his ‘enrichment’ time. Like all the well turned-out young children in our neighborhood, Ethan enthusiastically participates in the standard tennis, gymnastics, soccer, and Taikwondo lessons. In fact, Ethan has more resume enhancing ‘appointments,’ ‘lessons,’ and ‘tutoring,’ than a third year medical student. Despite this hectic schedule, Ethan still sets aside one day each week (Wednesday) to play a new and improved version of the ‘Bitching Hour.’ The latest game we’ve developed is called ‘Runway Rampage.’

In this particular game, Daddy is a famous fashion model (Either Naomi Campbell, Kate Moss, or Heidi Klum - they’re all equally deplorable) and my son is a well known and respected fashion show producer/director. Ethan commands me to ‘set the mood’ by turning up the lights in my bedroom and blasting Beyonce’s ’SINGLE LADIES’ as loudly as possible on my stereo system. Donned in his STAR WARS headset, Ethan first checks his clipboard, consults his stopwatch and then silently motions for me to make my pass on our makeshift catwalk. Like a drill Sargent, he shouts orders at me like ‘strut’ and ‘work it’ and as I pass him, dissatisfied, he punches me in the stomach as hard as he can.

“You call that modeling?” he cries “You’re not even trying! Again!”

I make at least 20 passes down the catwalk and have in turn endured 20 gut punches. I try not to think about the psycho-sexual connotations of my young son pretending his father is Heidi Klum and punching Heidi in the stomach because her strut isn’t up to snuff.

After a while, I get tired of working the runway and tell Ethan that this super model is super in need of a drink. Like any good producer/director who is dissatisfied with his ‘star’s’ performance, Ethan yells, cajoles, pleads, and eventually begs me to return to the catwalk so that he can continue his assault. I become terribly conflicted and think about other little boys whose fathers are pursuing ‘manly’ pursuits with their sons such as throwing baseballs, building model airplanes, and collecting stamps while I’m sashaying down an imaginary catwalk while my son sucker punches me. Am I doing the right thing?

I need a new agent.

Fuck it, I thought. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven, right?

How frighteningly naive I was!  Having raised my son the last eight years, I can now tell you that fire and brimstone would be a comfort compared to what I’m certain God, Satan, and Sarah Palin have in mind for me. I have it on good authority that hell is an eternal carpool, trapped in a subcompact car with a pack of tired and hungry 8-year-olds with neither snacks nor drinks.

Recently, I dragged my fat ass through the seven-circles-of-hell rush hour traffic to pick up my son Ethan and his grade school cronies at school.  You might imagine that when Ethan saw my bedraggled face and body from across the blazing asphalt that serves as his school’s play yard, he sprinted across the pavement waving his arms while jubilantly shrieking, ‘Thanks for picking me up dad, you’re the greatest.  I love you so much!’

You would also be VERY, VERY, VERY wrong.

Ethan slunk up to me with a scowl on his face. I couldn’t tell whether I’d arrived too early, too late, or he was just pissed off that I’d arrived at all.  The only ‘acknowlegement’ I received was a guttural grunt indicating his displeasure. Excuse me, but what the fuck was that?  In an instant, I channeled my inner tranny who made her angry, sequined appearance by snarling at my son, ‘Bitch, don’t be givin’ me shade…I just wanna get paid!’  As usual, my gay slang fell on deaf ears as straight-boy Ethan doesn’t speak fag fluently.  However, Ethan’s glittery, metrosexual friend Brandon was able to interpret.

‘I think your dad is pissed off that you didn’t say ‘hi’ when he came to pick us up,’ Brandon confides to Ethan.

‘I didn’t feel like it. I wasn’t happy,’ Ethan responds.

‘Ethan didn’t feel like saying ‘hi,’ he wasn’t happy,’ Brandon reports.

‘Yeah, got that. Thanks, Brandon,’ I say.

I take Ethan gently by the shoulder and turn him around to face me.  While hugging him closely, I whisper in his ear a deal I am certain he cannot refuse.  In exchange for some Pirate’s Booty Popcorn, Kit-Kats, or Fruit Roll-ups, whenever I pick Ethan up from carpool and he is feeling unhappy, mopey, or morose he should do what any Academy Award winning actress like Bette Davis, Marilyn Monroe or Liza Minelli would do. Fake the shit out of that smile and wave at me like a beauty queen on crack. Ethan pulls slowly away from me and far from being horrified, seals the deal by shaking my hand heartily.  As we all walk to the car, I begin to rethink the deal I’ve just cut with the devil, as my now weirdly happy son Ethan hums AC/DC’s HIGHWAY TO HELL maniacally.

You would think that my eight-year-old son Ethan, who much to my horror is becoming straighter and straighter each day, would see through my  lascivious gender bias and DEMAND that I throw in a hot girl servant now and again.  Perhaps some tender young scullery maid or cleaning lady who might dote upon him and flirt outrageously.  Much to my bewilderment and enjoyment, such a request has never been made.  On the contrary, my son Ethan, a total ‘guy’s guy,’ seems to revel in the constant array of Brandons, Matthews, Trevors, and Gregorys.  While I am predictably dazzled by each ‘manny’s’ snow white teeth and washboard abs, Ethan honestly regards them as some kind of brethren, kindred spirits who share his interest in baseball, video games and ultimately… girls. With each of these gorgeous, dumb-as-a-box-of-hammers, ‘dudes’ Ethan has developed an innate comfort level and perplexing, somewhat frightening language completely alien to me.

Last night, as I sat upon our porch sipping a rather mediocre Burgundy,  I watched Skyler, our new &  improved manny/actor engage my son Ethan in a football toss. Skyler decided that Ethan should ‘go long’ and hurled the ball as hard and fast as he could. I held my breath and watched Ethan careen up the median to catch the ball as devastatingly handsome, frighteningly dim- witted Skyler shouted “Get under it bro, get under it!’  To my surprise, Ethan caught the pass and as he raced back towards Skyler, the two met and exchanged ‘high fives’ in addition to the ultimate in macho fuckery, a ‘belly bump.’  Skyler grabbed Ethan and as he held him jubilantly above his head, Ethan turned to me and shouted ‘Did you see that dad, I caught it!’

I waved proudly at the two straight men celebrating before me as a strange feeling suddenly overcame me. At first, I thought it was acid reflux from the crappy wine I was drinking.  But after a brief moment of introspection, I realized that I was strangely envious.  Ethan would always be the golden boy, the well-liked, popular boy that never wanted for love, attention or playmates. Unlike me, Ethan would never be picked last for football, never be called ‘fag,’ or worse, have to lie about who he truly was.  I was in danger of becoming tiresomely maudlin, when out of nowhere, Ethan spontaneously waved Tyler away and requested that I join him on the lawn for a catch.  I dumped my glass of wine, hurriedly descended the steps to my house and joined my son on our impromptu ‘field,’ content in the knowledge that while Skyler, Matthew, Gregory, or Trevor may ‘play for his team,’ I would always be captain.