As near as I know, our eldest son hasn’t considered entering law school. Still, it is my contention that he should – at the very least – mull it over.
That kid can debate, dispute and deliberate his causes with the best of them.
Take, for instance, the other day when I asked our pseudo attorney to clean the bathroom. He consulted his notes, paused for effect and then said with faux respect, “If it pleases your honor, are you sure you feel that I should be the one to clean the bathroom?”
Feeling the debate coming on, I squinted a bit, raised an eyebrow and responded, “I don’t know. Is there a reason that I shouldn’t want you to do it?”
“Well,” he said as he began his summation, “I think if we take a moment to look at the evidence, the facts in this case speak for themselves.”
“What are the facts in the case?”
“For one,” he said in a solemn tone, “I, Vernon C. Clinch, am not the only perpetrator. In fact, I believe the evidence clearly shows that no less than three other children have used this bathroom, and if responsibility and accountability are taken into consideration, then it would be nothing less than a crime to have me clean this area.” Then he leaned forward for effect and asked, “Would you not agree?”
Rather than respond, I took his argument under advisement, reviewed the facts of the case and chose a simpler route by making his younger brother do the dastardly task.
As if that weren’t enough, you can imagine my dismay when I rounded the corner the other evening and found Vernon standing in the kitchen with a flow chart, a stack of papers and a laser pen. It was obvious that he had gone to great lengths to prepare the area for his own courtroom drama.
“Your honor,” he said with sarcasm as he showed me to a kitchen chair, “I believe that the time has come to review the conditions of my midnight curfew. It is my belief that we, as a people, should ask ourselves if a midnight curfew is too restrictive for a person of my age. If it pleases the court, I have facts, I have statistics and I am fully prepared to call in witnesses to testify in my defense.”
“I think that midnight is just fine for a 17-year-old child,” I replied as I smacked a fly with my would-be gavel.
He then began a summation that was reminiscent of a closing argument by Robert Shapiro. “I’ll soon be 18,” he said as he built up steam. “I’m responsible, I’m trustworthy and all of my colleagues have curfews that extend well past the midnight hour.”
I gave him a judicial eye rolling as he continued with, “In fact, my friends don’t call me Vernon anymore; rather I am known as that ‘mama’s boy who has to be home before midnight.’”
“I’d bet you a dime to a dollar that all of your friends have to be in by midnight.”
“Not so, and I am fully prepared to make a call to a parent who will testify in my defense.”
“Really?” I asked sarcastically. “You actually want me to believe that you know parents who let their kids stay out until all hours of the night?”
“I do, and if you’re up for the challenge, I’ll call them right now.”
Since I knew that his pile of data was actually a pile of schoolwork and that his statistics wouldn’t hold water, I decided to call his bluff and had him make the call.
“Donna?” he said to the parent who answered the phone as he leaned back into his chair with confidence, “This is Vernon.”
“Hi, Vernon,” replied Donna.
“Donna, we are having a debate here at the Clinch household regarding curfews. Please tell me what time you expect your own prized son, whom you trust, to come home for the night.”
“That depends,” responded Donna, “where is my son going?”
“He’s just hanging out with friends.”
“Are girls involved?”
“Sometimes.”
“Are the parents around?”
“Always.”
“Is my son watching TV, running amok or involved in a game of pinochle?”
“Donna,” said Vernon as he wished he had cross-examined this witness in advance, “it’s just an average night, and your son is doing average things with average people for average reasons.”
“Well then,” said Donna, “I can’t think of a reason that my son should ever stay out after midnight. After all, nothing good happens after midnight.”
The verdict was in – I was victorious. Vernon may try to wear the wing tips around here, but I get to wear the robe.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.