Just released from the Slightly Off Archives. . .

As a parent, the significant moment when your sweet, helpless baby grows into a self-reliant, mature responsible young person and first reveals his career aspiration is one you’ll never forget.

“I want to be a rapper,” my high school freshman announced while hiking up his pants.  My son spends 23 hours a day, hiking, pulling – and when he runs, holding up his pants, because of one fact that somehow seems to escape his comprehension – they are too big for him!

Now all the parenting experts tell you this is not the time to criticize your child’s career choice.  Instead, be supportive and encouraging. (Yeah, well that’s because their kids wanted to be lawyers and doctors, not wrappers!)

“So you want to be a wrapper.” I repeated back.  “Exactly what are you going to wrap?”  I asked in exasperation.  “Wrapping presents at the mall isn’t going to build you that house you always talk about with the professional-sized basketball court and 60 seat movie theatre, you know.”

“Not a wrapper, mom,” my astute teen explained. “A rapper, like Tupac and Eminem and Snoop, and Easy E.”

“I seesy E.” I said.

“I want to get down and rap about my life and my homies.”

“But most of those rappers get their inspiration from their rough and tough childhoods, right?” I reminded him.

“Right.”

“They’ve lived in dangerous neighborhoods and rap about the hardships in their world.  You’ve had a cushiony childhood compared to these guys.  What are you gonna rap about, Strife in the Suburbs?” I chuckled.

Then without warning, the chuckle became a laugh, and the laugh became a guffaw, and suddenly after all those painstaking hours of listening to annoying, rhyming, rapping sounds blasting on the car radio and booming behind the bedroom door, I lost my grip.

“What would you call yourself?” I goaded him.  “Hey, I got it.  The PBJ rapper. Get it? Peanut, butter and Jelly rapper.  Ooh that’s good. Then, I started slapping my hand against my thigh and making those weird noises with my mouth, my hands were flying all over like they do in the MTV videos.  I grabbed my vegetable brush for a microphone and before I could stop myself, I was rapping.

“This is PBJ and I’m here to tell you, there’s strife in the suburbs, it can get to you too.
Can you picture my fate?  Eatin vegetables I hate, never stayin up late.
Takin out garbage, cleanin the garage, walkin the dog,
I got so many chores my head’s in a fog.
TV in my room’s got poor reception, been beggin the pees for a cable connection
There’s no question, I be stressin.
I be moanin, groanin, Snow blowin, lawn mowin, that’s where all my precious time’s goin.
These burbs are full of strife, it’s messin with my life!
School might be cool, if there weren’t so many tests, and teachers weren’t pests, and we could rest, on our desk. Homework’s got to go, I already know what I need to know, so, keep it slow.
I got 20 inch rims on my bike, waitin for driver’s ed is some waitin I don’t like.
Me and my homies chillin at the mall, I feel like die-n when my mom starts to call, “Marcus it’s time to go!”
I’m mortified, gotta hide, she’s ruinin my reputation and causin me constipation.
I shout, spout, pout.  When I’m 18, I’m movin out., I be makin my own route, to the city, where I’ll be sittin pretty, far away from the strife in this suburban life.”
I wrapped up my rap and looked around for my son. “Marcus? Wasn’t that great? This gig isn’t so bad after all. Hey, maybe we could rap together, you know, PBJ and M-O-M. We could go on tour with the M & M’s! Marcus?”

“My son is probably cryin, but his tears he’ll soon be dryin, looking for a new career no doubt, see how it all works out!”