‘Too tall’ for chocolate milk, the right height for wisdom

My 10-year-old is delighted that a combination of laziness and poor planning finds us at the McDonald's drive-thru for breakfast. OK, I won't be nominated for Father of the Year today.

I order my little boy his usual: Sausage McMuffin, hash browns and chocolate milk. The nice lady hands me the paper bag with a smile, and I pull the car away as I hand the goodies to the back seat. That's when Joseph surprises me, as he does regularly, with one of his "wise old man" observations about life: "Papa, I think I'm too tall to order chocolate milk at McDonald's anymore."

It's such a deliciously innocent malapropism. Makes me giggle. Immediately grabs my imagination. I stifle my laughter, and ask him what he means.

"Well, that woman was probably wondering why a 13-year-old was still ordering chocolate milk," Joseph explains.

Ah, now it makes sense. He's ridiculously tall for his age. His brothers are 6 feet 3 inches and 6 feet 4 inches, respectively, and I think little Joseph might someday be taller than that. It's not fair at all. Their father was the basketball junkie. God should have made me taller.

Joseph is having a moment of concern about the way he is perceived. He is often mistaken for being older than he is. Up until now, this makes him proud. But, when it comes to managing good politic at McDonald's, he opts for self-consciousness. "I still like chocolate milk," he explains thoughtfully. "But I'll just drink it at home."

I'm still giggling, now imagining a sign at the front door of fast food restaurants: "You must fit under this sign to order chocolate milk," the reverse of those signs at Disneyland where you must be "this tall" to ride the roller coaster.

My brain reflexively boots up the file containing the "You shouldn't care about what people think" speech. But something gives me pause. I censor the speech for a few more moments of thought. I notice I'm admiring my boy. He does not need rescue and reinterpretation of his social anxiety. He needs to be affirmed in it, then equipped to be responsible for it.

He's growing up. He knows, instinctively, that he's a social being. And social beings know that it most certainly does matter what people think. OK, perhaps not about your preference for bovine beverages; but, Joseph is beginning to embrace a wider principle. Only a fool would live in utter, deliberate disregard of any and every public perception.

I'm always intrigued by people who seem not to perceive themselves being perceived. Even more intrigued by folks who defiantly posture "not caring" about perception.

For example, you are free to put nine piercings in your face, to stretch and ravage your earlobes, and to scatter aggressive tattoos all over your body. But you can't then act surprised if Bellagio doesn't want to hire you as the maitre d' of a fine dining room. You'll scare the customers away. And it's naive and immature to settle the matter by rolling your eyes and deciding you're merely the unfortunate victim of social prejudice. Nope. If you choose to live on the extreme side of fashion, you should expect a reaction. You wanted this reaction. It is one of the reasons you chose it.

As a father, I want, every day, to encourage my sons to be wholly themselves. But the vital companion teaching is the necessity of being radically responsible for the selves they choose to present to the world. I will never tell them it doesn't matter what people think. What I tell them is that thriving social beings thrive in part because they are cognizant of how they are seen. They learn an artful politic. They are responsible to decide what perceptions must be managed, and what perceptions they can rightfully risk ignoring.

Joseph decides he's not too tall for bottled water or an orange juice. No, I tell him, he can't order a soda with this nutritious breakfast, because I'm too tall to explain that to his mother.

Too tall. Days later, I'm still laughing about it. The wisdom of it.

I can't wait for the next time some old friends come to town, especially if one of them is getting married. I'll meet them for some brews, memories and laughs. We'll celebrate. But, when, inevitably, the idea is broached to go to a strip club, I'm now armed with a response. My little boy taught it to me.

I'm too tall to go to strip clubs.

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Las Vegas Psychiatry and the author of "Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing" (Stephens Press). His columns appear on Sundays. Contact him at
227-4165 or skalas@reviewjournal.com.