Lobsters

You might have noticed that when I wrote about our trip through Northern Arizona this past weekend I made no mention of Andrew or Morgan (hereinafter known as the little bastards). That's because they weren't with us. Their father and they made the trek to Palm Springs to visit their grandmother and thence to Long Beach, California.

I can't honestly say I was sorry; sometimes I need a break from them. This being a step-father isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's not like the little bastards are going to show any gratitude to some old fart who's going to give them a hard time about cleaning up their rooms, turning off the lights and expecting them to do their homework!

They came home today. When I walked in through the door after a day at the office I could scarcely believe my eyes. Andrew walking around shirtless is not a sight one wants to behold if only because he still has a flat stomach. And both of them one or two shades more red than a well cooked lobster.

So Andrew made a song and dance show of the whole thing. He's sunburned and he wants to be sure everyone within whining distance knows about it. I fear I was somewhat unsympathetic; sunburn is akin to a hangover in my book, self inflicted and deserving of about the same amount of sympathy. None! I could understand if he'd been brought up in arctic climes but this is Phoenix, the land of 330 days a year sunshine. I cannot believe it possible that anyone can be almost 14 years old here and not know that prolonged exposure to sunlight in summer without sunblock causes burns.

Thus, when it came time to clear away after dinner he tried the 'I'm sunburned ploy'. I tried it myself, many years ago. Got the same reply he got. I suppose this means I've become my own worst nightmare, my own step-father. And doubtless he (Misery Guts) had similar thoughts when he was unsympathetic to me; and his father and his father unto the nth generation...