So the youngest of the progeny came home the other day with a most wondrous and amazing thing, a thing so beautiful it almost brought tears to my eyes.
He had in his possession a sure-enough, actual ... paycheck.
Yep, the last of the brood had exchanged labor for currency. And he apparently had done it well enough that he had been asked to do it again, on at least a semi-regular basis.
Oh, the possibilities that paycheck represented! Something approaching financial independence. The ability to do as one pleases, unfettered by the obligations of others. The freedom to try, explore, enjoy, heck, maybe even get into just a little bit of trouble.
I'm sure he had plans, too. I just never really asked him.
Yes, for parents, the words "first paycheck" are among the sweetest their children can utter, right up there with "academic scholarship," "full-time employment," and "I think it's time to get my own place/cellphone plan/auto insurance."
And, OK, "Momma," "Dada" and "I love you." Yeah, you know, sure. That stuff, too.
OK, so it wasn't a huge paycheck. I mean, let's face it -- he's a kid. That game ticket machine is pretty tricky, but it's not exactly running the Super Collider. In fact, it pretty much reminded me of my first check. I had to take that one to the bank, mostly because it was too small to go on its own.
But it did represent an important fact. He's gainfully employed, and for a few more hours a week he's doing something responsible -- depending, of course, on your attitude toward pizza as a meal -- with limited ability to do anything that might get him into trouble. Like, say, flipping plastic lids into a deep fryer, Frisbie-style, or seeing just how fast a golf cart will go downhill, backwards.
Because who would do that, right?
And for parents, there is at least one more bonus from that first paycheck. In a world where the average sixth-grader knows more about your phone than you do and your kids get to roll their eyes when you ask if Bluetooth is that deal the fancy mouthwash is supposed to take care of, you are at least an expert when it comes to messy stuff like W2's and deductions.
It doesn't stop with that first check. Every April I'm suddenly a tax consultant and right around this time I become an expert on benefits. Which proves, once again, that free advice is often worth exactly what you pay for it.
That's the beauty of having been on the job for a bit. You don't sweat the details. You have long since gotten over the sticker shock of that first check and are more than familiar with the concept that, while you thought it was just you hauling that trash all the way to the dumpster and sweeping those floors, when it comes time to get paid, you appear to have taken on some partners.
So when they get to the "deductions" part and look at you with that "hit in the head with a brick" expression, and you can just pat them on the back and say, with your most fatherly tone, "hey, don't get too upset about that, son. It's going to get a lot worse later."
Except it won't, really. Looking back, I can still remember the tremendous freedom I felt when I got my first check. I had actually done something that wasn't theoretical like schoolwork or dumbed down like virtually any household chore. And I was getting paid for it by someone who valued my efforts enough to reimburse me for them, and who wasn't just giving me money to go to the movies while I pretended I earned it.
Suddenly that whole world out there where adults got in their cars and went off somewhere to do something so they could keep the lights on and put food on the table didn't seem so foreign. And maybe not quite so scary.
And the deductions part? Well, consider it shared misery, one thing I suddenly had in common with the rest of the men who lived on our block. Every payday I got to look at my check, sigh, and say "whattayagonnado?" just like they did.
So to all the kids out there who, like our youngest, are suddenly part of the work force, do your best to enjoy it. Bus those tables, mow that grass, take the tickets and smile. You may not always believe it, but whatever you're doing is important enough that someone is willing to pay you to do it.
And that check? It's a beautiful thing.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 11/13/2014