Sidekicking

Is there anything worse than an adult sidekick?  I mean, sure.  Yes.  There is.  Obviously.  About a trillion things.  Actually, that’s probably a low estimate.  We’ve got war, famine, being home on a Friday night and everything in between a stubbed toe to global warming.  Just as a start.  Nonetheless, being middle aged and the second or third banana to most of the people you know, plus some pets, isn’t what most people would regard as a success on top of their resume.  But that’s where I stand.  And, actually, I have few complains.  I’ve joined the Robins, Tontos and Andy Richters of the world.  Good times.

I did grow up expecting to be the hero of his own story.  Most do.  What else are parents, teachers and society going to tell kids to shoot for.  And I figured he was on the right path.  I studied.  Traveled.  Had misadventures as a youth.  Taste tested different jobs.  Chose a career.  Mentored others.  Made a bit of a difference.  Married a beautiful and smarter woman.  Became a father, twice.  Bought a house in the suburbs.  Surrounded it with a picket fence.  Unpainted.  Got the requisite dog and cats.  And at about that time figured out the obvious.  All of the above were the heroes in my story.  I’d become their sidekick in a process so gradual and pleasant that I almost didn’t notice.  That’s how good my wife, my son and daughter are.  Even my dog.  And the cats.

So, that’s what my story is.  A series of intense training, startling mishaps and crazy adventures I become the best butler to my children – a dutler – or to my wife – hutler.  Never mind the dog or cats.  Read away to see how it started and where it goes.  It’s good times.