I Became a Teenager When I Turned Eight

It is said that a boy becomes a teenager when he realizes his father is not perfect.

If that's true, I became a teenager when I turned eight.

That was the first time I remember my Dad doing something that seemed less than perfect. Yes, little boys tend to look at their fathers through rose-colored glasses, not believing for a moment that he is anything less than some kind of superhero. But there comes a point when life snatches those glasses right off your face, and you realize that your Dad has his own hang-ups and plenty of them.

I remember when the glasses came off.

When I tell the story, you may consider it trivial, even humorous, but to little, eight-year-old me, I promise it was traumatic. It left me asking the question that many a teenage boy has asked their Dad both in their head and out loud:

"What the heck, Dad?!"

I feel like I should add a disclaimer at this point: My father was a great father for the most part. He loved us; he provided for us. He was an excellent example in so many areas. But, although my Dad was well-meaning, as most Dads are, he didn't always get it right.

So it was on the occasion of my eighth birthday.

The year was 1988.

There were no mobile phones, no internet, and even our first VHS video player was several years away. There were only two TV stations to choose from, so we listened to the radio. "Kokomo" by the Beach Boys was the number 1 song, and it was on high rotation.

We climbed trees, built forts out of blankets, and rode our bikes through the streets for entertainment.

In those days, the unspoken rule was that Dads worked, and Moms stayed at home to look after the kids. Our home was no exception. On a single income, money was always tight.

That is how I ended up owning a second-hand bike that Dad got for free somehow. Perhaps a neighbor had no use for it anymore, or maybe he found it with someone's trash on the side of the road. But, these were the days of hand-me-downs, and nothing that could be repaired was ever thrown away.

Thus, no questions were asked when I inherited my first bike. It was a metallic bronze color and had a white basket affixed to the handlebars. The chain would fall off periodically, but by necessity, I quickly learned how to refit it myself. The seat was an old, shabby brown thing that resembled a sinewy lump of decomposing meat. Every few days, another chunk would fall away, making the seat more and more narrow, and the structural integrity of the platform you were supposed to rest your arse on more perilous with each ride.

Dad, in his wisdom, must have noticed this and resolved in his mind to do something about it. With my eighth birthday on the horizon, he saw an opportunity. Two days before I was to blow out my candles, my bike disappeared. Dad had whisked it away to the nearest bike shop to get that old seat replaced.

This was the first occasion that I remember my well-intentioned Father trying to do something nice, only to find himself sidelined by his own weaknesses.

And what was one of my Dad's biggest weaknesses?

Whether it was the financial pressure of being the family's sole breadwinner, I can't say for sure. But, my Father couldn't resist a bargain. He would never buy something if he could get it cheaper somewhere else. He was a sucker for a sale. Heck, I'm pretty sure he had shares in the local dollar store, where a couple of coins could open up a world of possibilities.

It was this penchant for saving pennies that led my Dad to walk straight past the nice, new, shiny bike seats in the bike shop to the "reduced to clear" section. There he found a bike seat, much cheaper than all the other bike seats, and sure enough, he snapped it up and got it fitted to my bike.

He brought my bike home and, with eager anticipation, unveiled it to me, his eight-year-old son, on the occasion of my birthday. He had it covered in a blanket which he yanked aside when the moment came for the big reveal.

You can imagine my horror when, as an eight-year-old boy, I discovered that my father had fitted a bright, fluorescent pink seat to my bike.

"Thanks, Dad!" I lied.

Here is the photographic proof:

I may appear to be smiling in this photo, but I can assure you that I am weeping tears of bitter indignation just beneath the surface.

In 1988, pink was not the 'new black.'

Pink was pink.

And pink was not for boys…, or so it seemed. It's silly, but that was the reality of growing up in the hyper-machoistic eighties, where it felt like the worst possible thing that could happen to a boy was for him to be labeled a "girl."

For several months, I rode around on my pink-seated bike until I could take it no longer. The teasing that I copped from other kids was merciless.

Finally, Mom made Dad get a different bike seat. He grumbled about how money didn't grow on trees.

It is said that a boy becomes a teenager when he realizes his father is not perfect. But, he becomes a man when he learns to forgive his father for not being perfect.

If that's true, I became a man when I turned twenty-eight.

That was the first time I held my own son in my arms, and, as my heart swelled with pride and joy, I thought to myself, "I have no idea what the heck I am doing or what it takes to be a good Dad."

It was then that I felt the kind of appreciation for my own Dad that he probably deserved, but was seldom given. He wasn't perfect, but he did his best. Sometimes he would try to do something nice, only to find himself sidelined by his own weaknesses.

As I held my own son, I vowed that I would never buy him a pink bike seat, unless he particularly wanted one. Times have changed since the eighties. At the same time, I also realized that no matter how careful I am, I'm going to do something else that causes my son to realize one day that I'm not perfect.

Then he'll become a teenager just like I did when I turned eight.