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

These snarky T-shirts are all the rage these days, and not just on kids. At one point, Kimmel’s brother-in-law decided to start an online T-shirt company. He was one of those guys you’d see constantly rocking that “No Fear” gear, so of course he decided he needed to get into the douchewear game. He very proudly pulled me aside one day to show me his latest T-shirt. It said “Scars Heal, Losing Doesn’t.” I smiled politely but then had to inform him, “But scars don’t heal. Wounds heal and leave scars. Scars are the permanent thing that is left behind. Scars never heal. I still have a scar from a vaccination in 1964.” There was a prolonged pause of stunned silence before he said, “Shit. I just ordered five thousand of these.”

When I was on Loveline, a listener once sent me a T-shirt that read “Masturbation Is Not a Crime.” I brought it home and did what I do with all the shit people send me (sorry, fans). I put it in a pile to give to the housekeeper. The problem was that my non-English-speaking maid’s non-English-speaking husband wore it to work one day and got fired.

This attitude pandemic has really affected Sonny. I was watching basketball with him one night and he told me that even though he’s a pretty big Clippers fan, he would settle for playing for the Miami Heat. He actually said settle . That was his fallback, his safety NBA franchise. There was no doubt he’d be in the league, it was just a matter of going to his favorite or slumming it with the Heat.

This kind of behavior started early with Sonny. Back in his tee-ball days there was one game when he refused to wear his hat. I’m not sure why, but he just didn’t want to. I told him to put it on three times before he did it. Lynette then said I had to tell him why he needed to put on his hat. What has happened to our society? What happened to the years when you as dad or coach could just yell at a kid to put their hat on and they would? Nowadays, we have to convene a tribunal and bring in a family therapist to make sure it’s stated in a supportive, nurturing and positive way. He was on a team that was wearing uniforms. He’s supposed to be part of that team and should be doing what they’re all doing. But in our current society everybody has to be such an individual there is no such thing as a uniform. And therefore I become a monster for telling him to put one on.

I’m also considered a monster for not hoisting him on my shoulders and celebrating his “home run.” It was not a home run. Yes, Sonny scored, but he didn’t hit the ball more than forty-two inches from the plate. It was somewhere in between a grounder and a bunt. But the kid who threw to first overshot and the right fielder was picking dandelions, so Sonny was able to round the bases and score. And he even got the game ball with the date written on it. It’s on his shelf right now, ironically higher in the air than it ever traveled that day.

I don’t think any of this helped Sonny’s attitude on the field. When he wasn’t able to connect with the ball, did this push him to practice more and try to improve his swing? Nope. He blamed the ball. That’s the problem with the artificial self-esteem inflation we’re doing. It removes kids’ ability to look at their weak spots and fix them. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Sonny still believes, and this is a direct quote, that he could “hit the ball to the moon.”

Kids hit the field today, in whatever sport, thinking they know everything there is to know. They don’t even want to hear any direction or coaching. Another time, when Sonny was at bat whiffing I was behind the backstop trying to coach him. I shouted to him “Sonny, swing level” at least three times. I wanted him to keep his elbow up. But I realized as I saw him not doing it that he was five and maybe the word “level” wasn’t in his vocabulary yet. So I said, “Sonny, do you know what level means?” He looked over his shoulder and very condescendingly shot back, “Yes! We have levels on Angry Birds.”

Things really went into overdrive when Sonny was doing track while the 2012 Olympics were all over television. After watching about ten minutes of the Summer Games, he declared that he was going to be a gold-medal sprinter. This is despite the fact that he also declared that his friend Jensen was the fastest second grader on the planet. I guess he thinks he can make up the deficit with pure grit and determination. I had fun sarcastically noting the odds that the two fastest people on the planet sit next to each other in the same school. At least Sonny was realistic enough to know that it wouldn’t last forever, and that he would have to fall back on teaching kids how to run.

One day, I spent eight hours broiling at L.A. Valley College for one of Sonny’s seemingly never-ending track meets. As soon as he finished his last race, I said to Lynette, “I’ll go get the car.” I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there and into my cool house with a cold beer. She told me, “No, he has to get his medal.” I was confused. He hadn’t won the race. He hadn’t even placed. He came in eighth. It got extra confusing when I looked and saw that the podium had six spots. Sixth-place level on the podium was as high as a serving tray. The sixth-place runner could have roller-skated up to receive his medal, no problem. Again, Sonny came in eighth, so I wasn’t sure how that was considered a podium finish. And he wasn’t on the podium; he was in what I would call the drip tray. He stood next to another kid who stood next to the person in sixth place. They might as well have dug a hole to put him in. For his three races, he came in eighth, ninth and another eighth, but he still came home with a Mr. T’s neck worth of medallions.

The whole thing got even more insane when they called his name and he snapped into a Usain Bolt victory posture. If Usain Bolt had come in eighth at the Olympics he would have just kept running until he found a cliff to sprint off.

Here’s an actual picture of Sonny celebrating another track “victory” a la the 1968 Mexico City Olympics.

This isn’t just an L.A. thing either. One of my listeners tweeted to me that at his kids’ school they had a track meet and third place was gold, second was platinum and first was double platinum. There literally was no bronze. The ranking system they’ve had since the inception of the modern Olympics is not good enough for today’s princes and princesses, and will certainly destroy their fragile self-esteem.

Don’t take all of this the wrong way. I love to see my kids succeed, I just think that as a society we continue to lower the threshold of what is deemed a success in order to not hurt any feelings.

Let me end with this quick note to Sonny for when he reads this later in life.

Son,

I bust balls about the ninth-place finish being a podium finish because I don’t want you to settle for that. That game ball on your shelf for your home run is a living reminder of settling for okay instead of great. I used to get participation trophies for my years of playing football. But I have no idea where those are now, because I got rid of them. They meant nothing to me. Those trophies were given to me for simply showing up. They may as well have been handed out on the first day of practice. Instead of that, I want you to feel the pride that comes with doing your best and kicking some ass. Like you did on this day:

This is a picture of you winning the 400-meter. That’s what I want for you, in all things. And what I want for me. Not in a reflected glory, my-kid-is-great-therefore-I-am-too kind of way. My old man never got his ass off the sofa to go to any of my football games. I could show up and simply settle for attendance, and call that a parenting success compared to him. But I want to cheer you on when you’re winning, and push you when you’re not pushing yourself. If I’ve ever gone too far, I’m sorry. It’s just that I believe, as a wise man once said, “Scars Heal, Losing Doesn’t.”