A Dose of Reality with an Assist from a Six-Foot Mouse

The woman next to me at the gas station last night couldn't even get a moment's fresh air. Her door was open, and she was in and out several times to adjust the music and other variables in hopes of calming her crying child. The Chicken Dance didn't seem to help either. And although I'm more familiar with the Dancing Elmo version ("Elmo wants to be a chicken, Elmo wants to be a duck ..."), which deserves a permanent home in the trash can, I had no trouble believing that.

This woman's situation served as what's really a constant reminder: As a parent, you are selfless.

She was probably on her way from work and just picked up her kid, the abrupt transition from job duties to life duties. My ride home from work each day serves as kind of a buffer. It's 20 minutes during which that transition can be softened. It doesn't always work that way, but it's a buffer in theory.

As usual, I arrived home last night to the apparent delight of my children. The screams usually seem to be in delight, and there was some extra pep this time. I was told we were going to Chuck E. Cheese for dinner.

I hate Chuck E. Cheese.

I've always said that Chuck E. Cheese is kind of like a casino, with the flashing lights and steady beeping of the various games/machines. Of course, the creepy old people you'll find at a casino at all hours of the day are replaced by dirty children who go straight from soda and pizza to Skee-Ball and video games. But there's no chance you'll win anything. Chuck E. Cheese is actually more like a shitty credit card rewards program. You spend your money to earn tickets, which you cash in for low-grade merchandise at a highly unfavorable redemption rate.

It's also the kind of place where you really don't want to have to go to the bathroom. There's something depressingly humbling about using a restroom when you know that 75% of the patrons miss their targets and don't wash their hands. I don't know when it sinks in for kids that the piss needs to hit the water and that you have to wash your hands after trying, but I'm guessing it's somewhere around 600th time they've been told. Needless to say, when I couldn't help but have to use the restroom last night, I did the foot toilet flush, and I used a paper towel to turn the faucet on and off and when opening the door. And it still meant nothing because most of the stuff that awaited on the other side had probably already been infected anyway. I hoped that heavy and repeated doses of sanitizer would help.

My family trip to Chuck E. Cheese was otherwise uneventful. But the point is that, despite my usual foul tone, I didn't ultimately have a true objection to going. My kids were freaking thrilled. And my wife even used a coupon to help us save. We even stopped at the park on the way home.

There was a time -- and it may not have been too long ago -- when I might have been royally and inconsolably pissed to have missed the first six innings of the Cubs game, but I'm starting to come to grips with these things. I can still probably be a selfish prick at times, but I'm learning to be selfless.

The sad thing is that even when I should have been selfish, I often wasn't. It may not even be as much about selfishness, rather it's about judgment and priorities. Whatever.

A recent reminiscence caused my brother and a friend to tell me that I once had a chance to go on a "legendary streak of tail." Of course I fucking blew it. But that's in the past. My priorities are right where they belong now.