Adam Carolla - Daddy, Stop Talking! - And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

Among the other hippie bullshit my mom adhered to was her biorhythm wheel. For those of you who’ve never heard of this (and congratulations on that, you were raised by sane people) it’s supposedly calibrated to your birthday to tell you what your biorhythms are and whether you’re going to have a good day. There’d be something called an “extra critical” day when you were in transition from one phase to another during which it was not a good idea to operate a motor vehicle, leave the house or do anything really. At least, that’s how my mom used it. To her, every day was an extra critical day. Or so it seemed. Any time I needed her to do anything, like give me a ride to Teddy Lewis’s house three miles away in Van Nuys, it seemed to be an extra critical day and she needed to continue vegetating in our Valley shitbox. She actually had a twenty-four-hour-notice policy for getting a ride so she could consult the biorhythm wheel. I kid you not.

This thing that ruled my mom’s life when I was a kid was about as scientific as a mood ring. But it allowed her to validate the lazy, downtrodden, checked out, scared-of-life lifestyle she had come to know and love, and thus make no attempt to change it. It was as if for every decision she consulted a Magic Eight Ball with only one fortune, reading, “Fuck Off.”

So growing up in this depressing soup definitely damaged me. And I won’t do that to my kids. My mom is still living this way. I’ve always said that she has three modes: “has a cold,” “just getting over a cold,” or “feels something coming on.” This is a great way to get out of stuff. Once people learn you’re that person, they stop expecting anything. No matter what, I will be there for my kids. Plus I never get colds because I’m not one of those anti-vaccinating, Purell-soaked cowards.

My mother is incapable of admitting or acknowledging happiness. I once bet my buddy Ray that if he called her and she said she was doing “good,” instead of “okay” or “fine,” I would give him a thousand dollars. There was a risk. Ray doesn’t call my mom often, so if he rang she might put on a brave face and lie. But I felt confident. He called her up and asked how she was doing. Her immediate answer was “not so good.” I never even needed to take my wallet out.

Here’s another move my mom had, and still has, that I will never pull on my kids. Whenever you ask her anything, there is a slow, long exhale before she answers. You could ask her something simple like what time it was and when she was finished deflating herself it would be a full minute later than when you asked. Every question is met with a tired-of-life sigh as if to say, “I wish this breath were my last.”

I would rather have been physically abused than lived with the total zeros that my parents were. My house was as lively as a funeral at a methadone clinic.

4. HAVE A PASSION

On that note, one thing I do opposite from my dad is have passion. If you asked my dad for his favorite team or performer, he’d not be able to provide it. He has zero passion for anything. He likes jazz and, if you really pressed him, he might say he’s a fan of Tony Bennett or Dave Brubeck, but he doesn’t have all their records, or autographs or books about them. This is something I cannot understand, and I vow I will not pass on this level of indifference to my kids.

That sends two incredibly negative messages. First, that life is not to be embraced fully and deeply, that it can be squandered. My father lived his life like he was going to live to be eight thousand years old. He didn’t throw himself into anything, the way that I, an atheist who believes you only get one go ’round and that the clock is ticking, does. Second is about identity. I’m “a car guy” and “a comedian” and “a builder.” I could add another twenty to that list. My dad was “.” He later became “a therapist,” but when I was growing up, he was blank space. It’s very unsettling for any kid to have a parent who, as far as engagement with life, isn’t really there. It’s like being raised by a vending machine. You could get from it the minimum sustenance you needed to survive, but you sure as hell weren’t going to go on a zip line with it over the Brazilian Rainforest canopy.

Sonny always sees me get excited about my vintage-car races. I think that’s good. I think as much as you need to participate in whatever your kid is into, they need to see and occasionally participate in what you, the parent, are passionate about. It sends the right message. We’re constantly wringing our hands about tutors and discipline and nutrition. One of the most important things you can show your kids is that you care about something. Show them things that are important are worth the effort: building a business, preparing a car for a race, improving your home, whatever you’re passionate about.

But don’t go overboard. You don’t want your kids to be like those preachers’ kids who get beaten, literally and figuratively, with the Bible. When you make everything a sin, you’re asking for trouble because eventually the kid is going to get a boner, decide that means he’s evil, say “fuck it,” and go get into some disgusting porn. Rebellion is the nature of teens. Well, I rebelled against my parents’ lethargy, so I hopped in a vintage race car and hit the track. If my dad had been into vintage racing maybe I’d be at home doing the crossword puzzle instead. So show them you care about something, about living, but don’t demand that they also get into that particular thing, too. On that note…

5. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU

The most important lesson I learned from Jim and Kris Carolla, a lesson I choose to ignore, was how to be selfish parents.

I’ll give them credit, they didn’t cram their interests down my throat. But a lot of that has to do with, as mentioned, not having any. My parents were the opposite of those Dance Moms who force their kids into pageants under the guise of “This is her dream; she wants to do it.” Bullshit. It’s clearly about your unfulfilled dreams. I hate those nut jobs talking about their pageant kids saying, “They’ve wanted to do it ever since they were three.” Three-year-olds have no control over their lives. If you don’t want your kids competing in pageants, you hold the power, not them. I sincerely doubt a six-year-old would hitchhike to the banquet room at the Sheraton and compete in the Little Miss Shaker Heights pageant herself if her emotionally damaged Mommy wasn’t pushing her.

But my folks, without fail, make it about themselves. Always have, always will. For example, in 2011, shortly after my first book came out, I was adapting some of the material from the book into a live stand-up show at the El Portal Theater in North Hollywood (interestingly enough, a former movie theater I had been to several times as a kid) and needed some visuals. I called my mom to see if she had some old family photos that I could use to illustrate some stories. She replied with, “There might be a shoebox in the closet.” A few days later, on the day of the show, I called to see if I could swing by and grab them.

Now, I’ve learned over the years not to ask my mom for anything. Or my dad, for that matter. Their M.O. is to be wildly ineffective and difficult, so everyone learns not to bother them. It’s like announcing you have a bad back. No one asks you to help them move when you pull that trick.

I didn’t think this was a big ask. My mom lived in nine hundred square feet, and finding that shoebox full of old pictures shouldn’t have been too much trouble.

When I called that day, I was hoping she had found the energy to help me out. “Can I swing by and grab that box and go through it?” She replied, “Me and your stepfather are making health drinks right now, I don’t really have the time. Could you come by in a few hours, like around two?” This was about eleven in the morning on a Saturday. The show was that night and I was behind. I said, “I have to go to North Hollywood to take a bunch of pictures, then up to La Crescenta to take a picture of that old house, too. The show is tonight. I’m really up against it and swamped. I could be there in the next half hour. Just get it from the closet, I’ll come in and grab it and be out of your way.” She, after a long sigh, said, “I don’t know…” So I threw in a sarcastic, “Forget it. Enjoy your health drink.” With no awareness at all, she then asked for four free tickets to the show that she put zero effort into helping me prepare. Think about the symbolism of that. Message received, Mom, you’re taking care of you. I said a very sarcastic, “Thanks a lot. I appreciate all the help. I’ll get your four tickets,” and hung up.