McGinn: It’s still my right as a father to spank or use chicken wire as I see fit

Andrew McGinn (left) had a bright idea earlier this summer: Let's drive Route 66 with a 2-year-old. This was a typical scene (outside a vintage Steak 'n Shake in Springfield, Mo.).

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McGinn

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By Andrew McGinn, Staff Writer 9:27 AM Friday, October 21, 2011

A cheetah in Botswana, a snow leopard in the Himalayas or a toddler at McDonald’s.

The sedative inside the tranquilizer dart makes no distinction.

And for a heart-stopping second, I had a clear shot.

I was always a big fan of “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” as a kid, so I knew just what to do — once I hit my target, it would gallop off into the brush before tumbling into a deep sleep, allowing me to safely relocate it to a game preserve.

But I’ll admit, I selfishly thought for a moment about switching to live ammo.

After all, the right taxidermist could make a darling little display out of this thing — perched maybe on some driftwood with a rabbit or a vole in its jaws.

And in that moment, I lost my shot.

Back on the run, my target literally just jumped into someone else’s booth.

On this particular morning, I would have to relocate my 2-year-old son from the South Limestone McDonald’s in a manner more befitting the late Steve Irwin — by pouncing on his back and wrapping duct tape around his snout.

On second thought, for the sake of anybody in Children’s Services reading this, let’s just forget I said anything about duct tape.

Then again, let’s not.

I’m the parent of a kid who seems to be either the reincarnated Genghis Khan or the product of my wife’s rumored affair with Bobcat Goldthwait.

It’s still my right as a father to spank or use chicken wire as I see fit.

I’ve documented my various misadventures in parenting before — particularly the challenges of the legendary “terrible 2s” — but I’d like to take a rare opportunity to brag.

I’ve gotten exceptionally good at: A. grabbing my son in public in a way that causes the least amount of property damage, and B. carrying him to the car in a manner that makes it physically impossible for him to scratch at my eyes unless he somehow possessed the flexibility of a bushmaster snake.

Together with my wife, we’re now pretty much a well-oiled, child-rearing machine.

Earlier this year, we sort of let our son drink an entire bowl and a half of salsa at the local Tumbleweed. (Hey, he was content. What more can a parent ask for in public?)

But when he then threw up all over the table, we sprang into action, cleaning everything up so swiftly that, not only did the party next to us not notice, but we’ve actually fielded an offer from the Air Force to lead the team that sanitizes the area around a UFO crash.

That said, though, I’m not any less tired of being the parent of a 2-year-old.

Even a Roman general presumably grew weary of battle at the end of a conquest.

It’s most definitely an interesting age, and one in which it’s impossible to gauge whether your kid will turn out to one day be a Nobel laureate or a scary hobo with a personality disorder.

It could go either way.

It’s also been interesting the past year to see how people — old people especially — look at our son in public.

As a baby, seemingly not a single elderly person shuffled by without commenting on how cute he was.

He was, in fact, adorable before he could run.

Now they just sort of glare at him.

Maybe it’s the realization they’ll soon have to subsidize yet another kid’s education with their property taxes.

After all, our son turns 3 in just a matter of days now.

Like the dawn at the end of a horror movie, we will have at last passed the “terrible 2s” — at least symbolically.

I’m not that naive.

For the time being, he’ll still collapse, howling, onto the kitchen floor when I won’t let him have an unsweetened baking square for breakfast.

But it means we’re also that much closer to the day when he can wake up, go downstairs and, all by himself, find something to watch on TV and finally reach the shelf where we keep the unsweetened baking squares.

Have at it, son.

If it means Mom and I get to sleep in, help yourself to those bouillon cubes, too.

Contact this reporter at amcginn@coxohio.com.

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