Like most parents, over the years I have gradually abandoned my youthful vices for the comfort of family life, to the point where the only indulgences I have left are pathetic. One of them is speeding.
I'm not even talking about fun speeding -- the kind that makes other drivers wish you'd get caught. I'm talking about the unwritten agreement that on main roads and highways, a guy can go 9 mph over the speed limit without getting busted.
But as I cruise along a four-lane road with my speedometer sticking to a perfect 39, the most hard-nosed cop in town sneaks up from behind.
"Daddy, the speed limit is 30."
Our 6-year-old is enforcing the law from her booster seat again. Who got the bright idea to build Jaycie's literacy skills by encouraging her to read road signs?
I sigh, slow down and ponder the dilemma of every parent who strives to be role a model but is stuck on being human: While I know I should show my children the importance of following rules, how do I explain that sometimes dad says, "Screw this"?
Even though we're parents, we sometimes walk when the sign says "Don't." We split the cable wire to hook up a second TV for free. We take the kids out of school a day early so we can hit the road for Spring break. We yell at the ref.
Most of all, we speed. Surveys consistently show that about three-quarters of U.S. drivers admit to regularly exceeding the posted limits.
But while we adults have this quiet compact that says a little disobedience is fine as long as you don't piss me off, I can't figure out how to explain that to a kindergartener who recently won so many good behavior coupons in class that she got to eat lunch with the teacher.
The parenting advice industry is no help. Books, magazines and Web sites give us finger-waving lectures about how we must not break rules, lest our children do the same. Typical is this tsk-tsking in a newsletter last year from an elementary school in Aptos, Calif., where parents were blowing off the child pick-up and drop-off system: "When our children see their parents break rules, they get the message that it is okay for them to break rules. Please set a good example."
I am shaken by the thought that because of me, my daughter will grow up to be the kind of person who goes 39 in a 30.
Look, I know that the by-the-book crowd has a point. I have told my children this story:
When I was 15, my 10-speed bicycle got stolen. When my mom called the shop where we bought the bike to ask about the cost of a replacement, the owner offered her a deal: He'd give her a backdated receipt for the stolen bike, with a higher price than she paid. She'd use that receipt to get a higher payment from our insurance company, then buy a new bike from him.
This is what grown-ups shrug off as "playing the game." My square mom said no. I told this to my friend Brian, in complaining about why I didn't get a new bike. Brian told his mother, who later told me how impressed she was by my mother's honesty. I felt a surprising rush of pride. That is why I remember the story.
I'd like to meet that standard. At the same time, I refuse to raise dweebs who are afraid to go in through the out door. In Les Miserables, Officer Javert tried living to the letter of the law, then dropped himself into a river. I prefer the approach of another literary character, Mr. Bumble, who in Oliver Twist declared, "The law is an ass."
Go ahead: Break some rules in front of your kids and tell them why. I do this with my 12-year-old son, explaining that if I get snagged by some uptight enforcer, it's my butt. Jaycie, on the other hand, is too young to discuss exceptions to obedience; it would confuse her, and she'd use it against me when I tell her to brush her teeth.
So I wing it. When we recently arrived early for a T-ball game that I was coaching, I entered the empty parking lot through the exit, because looping around to the official entrance would be silly. From the back seat came Jaycie's matter-of-fact gotcha: "The sign said do not enter."
I explained that the sign is for school days, not for Saturday mornings when no one is here. Then I called her Officer Jaycie. She laughed.
We have a deal: She snags me violating a rule, then lets me go when I come up with a good story. Just like adults do.