If you know me pretty well, you'd know how much I despise golfing. This frame might as well read, "I'd Rather Be Having An Enema".
My dad loved golfing, and he assumed if he made me golf with him I would also grow to love it. For ten years the Monson Sunday scenario was the same. Our family would walk home from church, and I would hide in the basement bathroom, praying Dad would just leave and go golfing alone.
I was never that lucky.
After 15 minutes of wishful thinking, I would hear Dad holler down the steps, "C'mon, Bud! Let's go!"
I'd weakly reply, "Go where?" [Pathetic, really.]
"Golfing! C'mon."
"But I hate golfing!"
"C'mon! Let's go!"
"Dad..."
"C'mon! Let's go!"
I'd slowly climb the stairs, sit on the top step, and swear under my breath while I put on my shoes. On the drive to the golf course I'd sit in silence, wondering how badly it would hurt if I jumped out of the car .
Complaining about golfing makes me feel like a spoiled child. Golfing is an expensive hobby, and spending two hours out in the sun can be relaxing and fun. But let me tell you, golfing with the mentally ill is never fun. By the time I was in my 20s Dad was bipolar and he had no mental sensor. Imagine being yelled at in front of a group of other golfers to hit the same golf shot 12 times in a row. Finally I had enough of his verbal abuse, and at the end of our last round together I threw my golf bag at his car and walked home. I was done.
But now that Dad is gone, does it make me sad that I can never golf with him again?
Heck, no. I understand that he was sick, and he couldn't help himself, but I hated golfing with him when he was mostly normal. It's like asking me if I miss getting a root canal.
So, why the license plate frame? The irony makes me laugh. It's like my car's wearing an ironic t-shirt or we're sharing an inside joke. Soon the frame will stop making me chuckle, and I'll take it off the car. But I'm going to hang it in my garage where I can see it. It'll be a reminder that enjoyment can't be forced upon a person, and repetition only breeds contempt. I can't make Charlotte enjoy the things that I enjoy. I can expect her to try, but if she really doesn't enjoy it, I better pull back.
As a dad my job isn't to make her into a golfer, or a runner, or any kind of athlete. My job is to encourage her to do her best at whatever she wants to do. But while she's doing "whatever", I have to make sure she plays fair, doesn't obsess when she loses, and when she wins she does it with grace.
My job is to help her to become a person who is kind to others and positively contributes to society. In the end, I think that's all a parent can hope for...
...but for now, "Hey Char! Wanna go to Goodwill with me?"
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