The Allen Wrench King

Everything is in the future, little dude. Everything. As I write this, the next word is in the future. But that word enters the past the moment I type it. As a matter of fact, I have this entire post sitting around in my head, waiting for the future, but it will soon be dead and gone. It will sit by itself, waiting for someone to read it, but it will remain in the past (even though someone will eventually read it, in his/her present, which is in the future).

It’s a remarkable life we lead, insomuch that we can observe ourselves with an outside eye as beings within the past, with a future, and still reside in the present.

We all move onward.

So we make big sweeping generalizations about life. That’s something you’ll learn to do, and sadly for your parents, that will come at inopportune moments. Judging by family stories, I expect that you will someday scream, in the middle of a department or grocery store: “My penis is hard!” That event, my son, will take place in your present. You will say it at the moment it happens. But it will also represent your past, when your parents talk about it with other people (and this will only happen after the fact; as a matter of fact, this type of behavior will likely be discussed long after you’re grown, and you’ll hear it again and again and again).

Anything you do as a baby will definitely be discussed with your extended family (that’s in the future), your friends (also in the future), and your girlfriends (and sadly, at this point, those stories will move again from the present to the future — we’ll enable those girls to carry confidential information with them through the rest of your life, so that people you’ve never met can talk about their friend’s ex-boyfriend’s problems, and that embarrassment will carry on through generations). It’s part of life, little dude.

But let’s focus on the positive aspects of your future for now. Let’s focus on what we, your parents, have done for you before you’re born, and what we expect will happen when you become a parent.

For example: your mom and I have gone through a process of deleting an entire room from our house. We took away our office to make space for you. What once was a blue room with desk, bookshelf, cds, tapes, and DVDs, has become a soft, off-white eggshell colored room containing a bed, changing table, rocking chair, dresser, toybox, and bookshelf. It is now a room of seclusion where your mom takes you (in her belly) every day or two, to rock in silence, away from the people that bother her.

She enjoys sitting in silence, rocking with you in her stomach, and you seem to enjoy it. Whenever you’re extremely playful in the belly, she rocks in the chair, and all becomes quiet. Hopefully that’ll be our out — when you’re restless, we can gently rock with you until you fall asleep.

What you don’t know, little dude, is the price I paid to make that room. I measure it in allen wrenches. Getting rid of all the furniture required that I search my stash of tools for allen wrenches — they’re little metric screwdrivers that have no place among the regular screwdrivers within the house. But the more furniture we buy, the more I find that the allen wrench is the desired form of tying things together.

As a boy I had many little toys, and they all required allen wrenches. My dad had to go out and buy those things when I needed them, because the United States was having a math war with Canada, and neither of our countries can decide on what’s the most important. This is why mom’s car requires metric tools, while dad’s car requires other measurements.

In getting ready for your premiere we had to buy new furniture for your room as well as for the rest of the house. As it is, though, every piece of furniture comes with its own set of rules, its own set of screws, and its own allen wrench. (Looks like the Canadians won out.)

So, in the past few months, you’ve acquired about five new pieces of furniture. Your mom and I have acquired another three pieces of furniture. All of them came with a set of instructions, screws, and, of course, allen wrenches.

So now it seems as though I have a legacy to pass on to you — the allen wrench. I’ve got about 8 right now (the present), and I assume that throughout the next 18 years (the future) I’ll likely pick up a few more. I want to pass those on to you, my son. I want you to be the king of allen wrenches. I’ve got about 6 of them right now, thanks to all the furniture your coming requires, and I expect I’ll pick up another thirty or forty in the coming years. No matter what, they’re yours the moment you have your own children.

Surprise your kids with your knowledge of how things work or, more specifically, “how things are put together,” by showing off your inheritance. When you have kids, you’ll be able to share your tools and build whatever contraption comes before you. Hopefully you’ll think of me when you purchase a toybox or crib or bike and recognize that sexagonal hub within each screw and think of me, the guy who put together everything you ever handled.