Recreational athletes, world travelers, teenage scholars, connoisseurs of their stepfather’s cooking and now this: comedic videographers.
Actually, secret comedic videographers.
Picture this: I’m sitting in my uncomfortable middle seat on the plane last Friday morning, heading to Atlanta. Headphones on. Listening to the Foo Fighters on my iPhone. And reading David Remnick’s profile of Bruce Springsteen in The New Yorker. (The profile was awesome. Check it out. And yes, it was in a July issue. I’m a little behind in my reading.)
I am so deep in the muck of nostalgia, going to a reunion and thinking about my Boss days, that I decide to start looking at the photos on my phone. Some really scenic pictures of our trip to Israel. Chicken tortilla soup from Los Antojos in Las Vegas. And the sun setting over the Del Mar Racetrack in California.
Then, I come across some videos that I’ve never seen before. And they’re recent. My kids must have shot them. With my headphones still on, I watch the first one and immediately get tears in my eyes. My kids are being so sweet. They’re telling me that they love me and that they love each other. My heart is full.
The person sitting next to me is eyeballing me sideways as I wipe away my tears and move on to the next video in the line up.
My tears of parenting love quickly turn in to tears of laughter as my daughter proceeds to tell me that actually she’s just really bored and wants her iTouch back. The one that was taken away because she did something that I can’t even recall. She wants to check her text messages and unfollow One Direction on Instagram.
Then she proceeds to throw fake punches at her brother’s head and he moves it like he’s really been punched. Quite talented because it looks very realistic. Okay, my teens are two for two with the videos. I’m touched and impressed.
There’s a third video. I’m almost afraid to watch it. I can see it starts with a picture of my son’s elbow crack. My seatmates are very close. I’m not really afraid that my kids are going to be doing something illegal on this third video, but the thought does cross my mind.
But I have no choice. I’m thousands of miles away. I’m not going to see them for four days. I have to watch it.
I do. And I’m not disappointed. I’m filled with parental pride at the cerebral humor my children have displayed. These are the children that I know and love. That were born from my abdomen and that I have been conscientiously raising for the last 15 and 13 years.
I think Hollywood is going to be calling soon. Clint Eastwood might need some help directing his new movie. Or they could be a brother-sister act on America’s Got Talent. Or perhaps an appearance on Chelsea Lately.
Or maybe the call will be my ex-husband wanting to know, “WTF?”
You be the judge.