My family loves to joke around. My Dad, my brothers, and now my kids. We have thick skin. We insult each other. We laugh. It’s good fun. Our church has name tag stickers. Davin gets a kick out of discreetly placing them on people after the service. He’ll collect a bunch of stickers from folks and then unleash his quirky mayhem. It’s particularly enjoyable to put a sticker on a baby’s hand, or on their forehead right between the eyes where they can’t reach it. Free comedy at its best until they start crying. When Davin is really on top of his game, you’ll see name tags on people’s stomachs, in their hair, the back of their legs, on their arms, and if you look around you’ll see Davin nearby with his hand over his mouth shaking in silent laughter. That’s the backdrop for our recent trip to the Olive Garden, where they’ve got a brand new addition to the kids’ menu … cute little Olive Garden stickers.
We were enjoying a nice dinner at Olive Garden with the kids and one of Davin’s friends. Lianne and I have ordered the soup and salad there for many years. The kids’ menu is new. It has some new games and items. It also includes a sheet of stickers. I think Lianne was the first to take a little sticker and try to sneak it onto Davin’s back. That opened the floodgates. As I stood up to leave, the kids couldn’t contain their laughter. I walked out of the restaurant looking like this:
I guess they ran out of stickers and started using the border of the sticker sheet. I knew they had put one or two on me, but I have no idea how they accomplished this. I am so proud.
The way my kids tease me reminds me of how we would tease Dad. He was not particularly fashion savvy. He refused to get rid of his fanny pack, despite all of our best efforts to convince him that the world had moved on. We contented ourselves with joking him about it, calling it his purse, asking him if he had all of his makeup in it, that type of thing. I think that the more we harassed him about it, the more determined he was to keep it. In fact, he had it with him in the hospital during his final week. We never did succeed in getting rid of that thing.
Dad would also tuck his shirt in all the time. I mean to say, regardless of the attire, his shirt was tucked in nice and tight. Dress shirt and khakis. Cargo shorts and a t-shirt. Jeans and a polo shirt. All tucked in. See exhibit A below. Yes, there’s a cute Stevenson kid in the picture, but look at Dad’s shirt. Outside playing with the grandkids, but never fear, the shirt is properly tucked in with military precision.
In an effort to bring Dad into the modern age of relaxed comfort, we started forcibly untucking his shirts. He would resist, of course. His usual move was to twist around as he saw us approaching for the pull. However, Grant eventually perfected the art of walking by Dad casually and tugging one side of his shirt out with amazing speed and dexterity. This was no easy feat, mind you. That shirt was always in there securely, and only one of uncommon strength had the ability to apply the upward force required. We all gave it a go, but Grant was the best. He also coined the phrase “shirt wedgie” to describe the move, since all good moves need a moniker.
We found that Dad couldn’t stand to have part of his shirt untucked, which only egged us on. He would inevitably tuck it back in at some point. Once he did, we’d all keep our eyes open, looking for the opportunity to speed by, grab some shirt, and jerk it upward while simultaneously yelling our “Shirt Wedgie!!!” battle cry. It was always good for a laugh, except that one time someone executed the move too quickly and carelessly, also grabbing some stomach hair in the process. Needless to say, the violence of the shirt yank, and the handful of hair, led to an incredibly painful shirt wedgie. There may have been tears, but even those eventually turned to laughter.
That might have been the turning point, because I don’t remember as many shirt wedgies over the past few years. Dad finally quit tucking his flannel shirts into his jeans, and his tank tops into his workout shorts. Sheer perseverance on our part, and perhaps the memory of a searing pain, must have worn him down.
There are many more classics. “Check your batteries”, imitating his wheezing laugh, and joking how he pronounced compass, were all fodder for good-natured ribbing. That’s another thing I miss about Dad, but I’m pleased to report that the tradition lives on through my sticker happy children. I’ve been the victim of an occasional shirt wedgie, and the kids now imitate MY newly acquired wheezing laugh. It is hilarious, and I love them for it.