The 'king' is dead — Rodney rules the neighborhood

SALT LAKE CITY — I have lost my status as most favorite dad in the neighborhood, a title I had held for a short but eventful two weeks since Mr. Bishop from next door lost his pet hedgehog.

(Those of us paying attention knew that he actually sat on it during the neighborhood block party and hadn’t noticed until he stood up to go. His wife found little Spanky — who had been pinned to Mr. Bishop's “sitting pillow” for two hours.)

Frankly, it was about time Mr. Bishop's reign ended. Everyone assumed that the title was rightfully his because he is old and cute and lets the kids set up their slippery slides in his front yard. Pay for the neighborhood kid’s orthodontics, and suddenly you're everyone’s favorite.

I have just about had enough of his ruling by benevolence and kindness. Spanky's “death by donut” couldn’t have come at a better time for me.

I made my move. The very next Saturday there were gallons of paint sitting at my house tantalizing the little pre-teens. We painted the lawn green. It beats fertilizing and watering. And to seal the deal, we used our hands. Like Tom Sawyer, just the mention of my concern that “they weren’t really old enough” did the trick.

In less than the time it took for me to laugh manically, 12 pairs of Velcro shoes-zees’ were flung onto the driveway, and green children began dancing and rolling in/on the front yard lawn.

Quick note: wife was out of town.

The whole thing was too easy, really. As long as they are safe, I don’t have to be a good parent — just the most popular one. I let them bark at the dog. I let the one child that is always talking about poo talk about poo — though I am careful not to ask him any questions.

The one who screams at the drop of a little brother I have assigned the task of head screamer. Even His Royal Bishopness, the Spanky Smasher, wouldn’t allow screaming at the height of his time in power.

I paired up the cute little bossy child with the nose picker, who, I just discovered, has fingertips. It’s a two-fer. He gets to clear his nasal passages and bossy pants gets to tell him to stop and say “that’s disgusting” over and over.

The one who talks nonstop I have invited to hang out with me as I now purchase my earplugs in bulk. She has not learned the difference between an “uh-huh” meaning “go on,” and an “uh-huh” meaning “Keep talking, my medication has just kicked in.”

The beginning of the end

So here I was, all set up to be the king-neighborhood-dad-dude, and one of the minis asked to borrow my bike — my personal bike that I have child-proofed and covered completely with reflective tape; the one I have named after my sainted mother; the one that has a plastic sleeve for my medical bracelet and my phone number etched on the handlebars for when I get lost. The one with the banana seat.

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Sam says that dancing is the most important thing a dad can do. "Disco," he says, and he gives me a little example there on his front porch.

I’m sorry, honey. I don’t let anyone use my bike.Not even me? said the one with the toes that point both east and west at the same time.

No, not even you, Sweetie. Sorry.

The deed was done. He quickly flapped over and informed Bossy Pants, who came over and told me off. She then tattled to Screamer, who told Mini-Screamer with penchant for lying, who told Nosepicker ….

Now I sit here alone, enjoying the last of my green lawn as it grows out revealing the water-starved brownish-yellow color it is famous for. Two weeks was all I could have asked, and it was a good run. I couldn’t keep it up anyway, now that my wife is back.

Now, the man in power, the best-neighborhood-dude-ever is the single guy across the street who lets the minis watch as he and his girlfriend get tan and listen to music. He allows them to wash his car.

I sit on a lawn chair and listen to the minis mutter under their breath as they walk by my house on the way to his: “At least Rodney lets us use his cool stuff!”

Yes, Rodney does. Rodney is spending time with his girlfriend in the hot tub. Rodney still wears swim trunks in quaint sizes like medium, and doesn’t scare the children when he takes his shirt off. Rodney couldn’t care less what leaves his garage as long as the minis keep the lawn mowed. Bully for him.

I might mosey on over there and see if King Rodney has any cool stuff that he’ll let me use, like a bike or a table saw.

Long live the King. Davison Cheney writes the "Prodigal Dad" family humor column weekly for KSL.com. See his other writings at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com and on Twitter @davisoncheney.

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