Daddy, Stop Talking!: And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting

by Adam Carolla

  The saddest part is that in my mom’s mind, this was a compliment. But the message conveyed is that the thing I cared enough about to make a documentary about she was not interested in. The thing your son is passionate about is of no interest to you. Maybe I should do my next documentary on her, because I find her lack of interest in my interests very interesting.

  Ultimately the lesson is this: whether it’s their finger painting when they’re three or their salesman-of-the-month award when they’re forty-three, you have to put in some telenovela-quality acting to pretend you give a shit. Because you do. Maybe not in your kids’ hobbies or minor accomplishments. No, the thing you give a shit about, or should, is your relationship with them.

  3. DON’T BE A BUMMER

  My parents were both total downers. My mom was a hippie who, ironically, had friends named Sunshine and Happy, but was a dark cloud and never mustered a smile. There was a constant bad vibe in my house growing up. I was inundated with messages about the indigenous people and how we were oppressing them, how horrible white people were, how it was all going to end in a nuclear holocaust anyway. These were great motivators for getting your kid up and ready for school. “Sure, son, you can go to school but it doesn’t matter. Khrushchev is going to nuke us all anyway.” You probably think I’m joking, unless you grew up in the sixties. Two of the most popular songs at the time were “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” by Peter, Paul and Mary, and “Eve of Destruction” by Barry McGuire. Here are a couple of lines from the McGuire tune.

  If the button is pushed, there’s no runnin’ away

  There’ll be no one to save with the world in a grave

  This isn’t coming from some unknown singer/songwriter at a coffeehouse. This was a Billboard number-one song the year after I was born. This is what I grew up with. My parents lapped this shit up.

  When I was somewhere in single digits my mom read one of those 1970s parenting books about how not to fuck up your kid. She must have fallen asleep before the end. I guess there weren’t enough pictures. When you’re reading one of these books, it’s already too late. The damage is done. Somewhere in the book it told her not to say, “I don’t like you,” but rather, “I don’t like what you do.” So at one point she used that line on me and I fired back instantly with, “I am what I do.” I must have been seven at the time, but I already knew that she was feeding me a bunch of hippie nonsense.

  This is the same “love the sinner, hate the sin” mind-set that Christian conservatives have about the gays. Something I’m sure my uber-liberal mother would be completely against. Moreover, if on that day in the early nineteen seventies I had asked her to separate Nixon or Henry Kissinger from their actions and see them as people, she would have given me a dozen reasons why the logic she had just spat out didn’t apply in those cases.

  So I bring the opposite of this message to my parenting. My kids are their actions. I’m never going to pull that “no matter what you do, I love you” bullshit. If Sonny decides to shoot up his college I’m not going to think, “Well, he’s still my son . . .” By that logic, we all could have been friends with Hitler. “Adolf, I love you man. But I don’t like what you do. The whole ethnic cleansing holocaust thing I don’t like. But you, as a person and a painter. Terrific.”

  Among the other hippie bullshit my mom adhered to was her biorhythm wheel. For those of you who’ve never heard of this (and congratulations on that, you were raised by sane people) it’s supposedly calibrated to your birthday to tell you what your biorhythms are and whether you’re going to have a good day. There’d be something called an “extra critical” day when you were in transition from one phase to another during which it was not a good idea to operate a motor vehicle, leave the house or do anything really. At least, that’s how my mom used it. To her, every day was an extra critical day. Or so it seemed. Any time I needed her to do anything, like give me a ride to Teddy Lewis’s house three miles away in Van Nuys, it seemed to be an extra critical day and she needed to continue vegetating in our Valley shitbox. She actually had a twenty-four-hour-notice policy for getting a ride so she could consult the biorhythm wheel. I kid you not.

  This thing that ruled my mom’s life when I was a kid was about as scientific as a mood ring. But it allowed her to validate the lazy, downtrodden, checked out, scared-of-life lifestyle she had come to know and love, and thus make no attempt to change it. It was as if for every decision she consulted a Magic Eight Ball with only one fortune, reading, “Fuck Off.”

  So growing up in this depressing soup definitely damaged me. And I won’t do that to my kids. My mom is still living this way. I’ve always said that she has three modes: “has a cold,” “just getting over a cold,” or “feels something coming on.” This is a great way to get out of stuff. Once people learn you’re that person, they stop expecting anything. No matter what, I will be there for my kids. Plus I never get colds because I’m not one of those anti-vaccinating, Purell-soaked cowards.

  My mother is incapable of admitting or acknowledging happiness. I once bet my buddy Ray that if he called her and she said she was doing “good,” instead of “okay” or “fine,” I would give him a thousand dollars. There was a risk. Ray doesn’t call my mom often, so if he rang she might put on a brave face and lie. But I felt confident. He called her up and asked how she was doing. Her immediate answer was “not so good.” I never even needed to take my wallet out.

  Here’s another move my mom had, and still has, that I will never pull on my kids. Whenever you ask her anything, there is a slow, long exhale before she answers. You could ask her something simple like what time it was and when she was finished deflating herself it would be a full minute later than when you asked. Every question is met with a tired-of-life sigh as if to say, “I wish this breath were my last.”

  I would rather have been physically abused than lived with the total zeros that my parents were. My house was as lively as a funeral at a methadone clinic.

  4. HAVE A PASSION

  On that note, one thing I do opposite from my dad is have passion. If you asked my dad for his favorite team or performer, he’d not be able to provide it. He has zero passion for anything. He likes jazz and, if you really pressed him, he might say he’s a fan of Tony Bennett or Dave Brubeck, but he doesn’t have all their records, or autographs or books about them. This is something I cannot understand, and I vow I will not pass on this level of indifference to my kids.

  That sends two incredibly negative messages. First, that life is not to be embraced fully and deeply, that it can be squandered. My father lived his life like he was going to live to be eight thousand years old. He didn’t throw himself into anything, the way that I, an atheist who believes you only get one go ’round and that the clock is ticking, does. Second is about identity. I’m “a car guy” and “a comedian” and “a builder.” I could add another twenty to that list. My dad was “ .” He later became “a therapist,” but when I was growing up, he was blank space. It’s very unsettling for any kid to have a parent who, as far as engagement with life, isn’t really there. It’s like being raised by a vending machine. You could get from it the minimum sustenance you needed to survive, but you sure as hell weren’t going to go on a zip line with it over the Brazilian Rainforest canopy.

  Sonny always sees me get excited about my vintage-car races. I think that’s good. I think as much as you need to participate in whatever your kid is into, they need to see and occasionally participate in what you, the parent, are passionate about. It sends the right message. We’re constantly wringing our hands about tutors and discipline and nutrition. One of the most important things you can show your kids is that you care about something. Show them things that are important are worth the effort: building a business, preparing a car for a race, improving your home, whatever you’re passionate about.

  But don’t go overboard. You don’t want your kids to be like those preachers’ kids who get beaten, literally and figuratively, with the Bible. When you make everything a
sin, you’re asking for trouble because eventually the kid is going to get a boner, decide that means he’s evil, say “fuck it,” and go get into some disgusting porn. Rebellion is the nature of teens. Well, I rebelled against my parents’ lethargy, so I hopped in a vintage race car and hit the track. If my dad had been into vintage racing maybe I’d be at home doing the crossword puzzle instead. So show them you care about something, about living, but don’t demand that they also get into that particular thing, too. On that note . . .

  5. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU

  The most important lesson I learned from Jim and Kris Carolla, a lesson I choose to ignore, was how to be selfish parents.

  I’ll give them credit, they didn’t cram their interests down my throat. But a lot of that has to do with, as mentioned, not having any. My parents were the opposite of those Dance Moms who force their kids into pageants under the guise of “This is her dream; she wants to do it.” Bullshit. It’s clearly about your unfulfilled dreams. I hate those nut jobs talking about their pageant kids saying, “They’ve wanted to do it ever since they were three.” Three-year-olds have no control over their lives. If you don’t want your kids competing in pageants, you hold the power, not them. I sincerely doubt a six-year-old would hitchhike to the banquet room at the Sheraton and compete in the Little Miss Shaker Heights pageant herself if her emotionally damaged Mommy wasn’t pushing her.

  But my folks, without fail, make it about themselves. Always have, always will. For example, in 2011, shortly after my first book came out, I was adapting some of the material from the book into a live stand-up show at the El Portal Theater in North Hollywood (interestingly enough, a former movie theater I had been to several times as a kid) and needed some visuals. I called my mom to see if she had some old family photos that I could use to illustrate some stories. She replied with, “There might be a shoebox in the closet.” A few days later, on the day of the show, I called to see if I could swing by and grab them.

  Now, I’ve learned over the years not to ask my mom for anything. Or my dad, for that matter. Their M.O. is to be wildly ineffective and difficult, so everyone learns not to bother them. It’s like announcing you have a bad back. No one asks you to help them move when you pull that trick.

  I didn’t think this was a big ask. My mom lived in nine hundred square feet, and finding that shoebox full of old pictures shouldn’t have been too much trouble.

  When I called that day, I was hoping she had found the energy to help me out. “Can I swing by and grab that box and go through it?” She replied, “Me and your stepfather are making health drinks right now, I don’t really have the time. Could you come by in a few hours, like around two?” This was about eleven in the morning on a Saturday. The show was that night and I was behind. I said, “I have to go to North Hollywood to take a bunch of pictures, then up to La Crescenta to take a picture of that old house, too. The show is tonight. I’m really up against it and swamped. I could be there in the next half hour. Just get it from the closet, I’ll come in and grab it and be out of your way.” She, after a long sigh, said, “I don’t know . . .” So I threw in a sarcastic, “Forget it. Enjoy your health drink.” With no awareness at all, she then asked for four free tickets to the show that she put zero effort into helping me prepare. Think about the symbolism of that. Message received, Mom, you’re taking care of you. I said a very sarcastic, “Thanks a lot. I appreciate all the help. I’ll get your four tickets,” and hung up.

  And that’s the lesson for all you parents reading this. If you’re reading this book while your kid is on the field playing football, put it down and watch them play. Being a parent is about putting your shit on hold. You’d like to buy a recliner; instead, you’re buying car seats. You’d like to drive a two-door convertible; instead you’re driving a minivan. You’d like to take a Hawaiian vacation; instead, you’re saving it for private school. There’s a monetary sacrifice, but there’s also a personal one. You’d like to just plop down in front of the television when you get home exhausted, but your kids want to see you, so you better get down on the floor and build that Lego castle. The more you’re into you, the worse the parent you are. We always think about the parents who are physically violent or alcoholic. You show me someone who is narcissistic and self-absorbed, and I’ll show you a miserable kid. That’s why no one should have kids at seventeen. You don’t give a shit about anybody but yourself at that age. And for the next eighteen years of that kid’s life, you’re going to have to do a lot of shit you don’t want to do. That’s what being a parent is. You’ll want to see No Country for Old Men but instead you’re going to A Dolphin Tale 2. And guess who ends up paying.

  But, you know what, it’s worth it. You might be miserable spending time and money on shit you don’t want to do but in the end it buys you something more valuable, a relationship with your kids. When you don’t show an interest in their interests, can’t feel or at least feign joy when you’re around them, when you make life with them seem like a chore, you pretty much guarantee that they’ll resent you. And, if you’re really unlucky, you run the risk of them writing their fourth book containing tales of your half- and, occasionally, quarter-assed parenting. I guess Sonny and Natalia should be grateful their paternal grandparents were such turds. Without them, I’d have a lot less vitriol to power my podcast and thus fill the family coffers. And I wouldn’t have such a clear roadmap of what not to do as a parent. And I pass that roadmap on to you, dear readers. Let my pain be your gain.

  CHAPTER 8

  To Sonny and Natalia, on Buying Your First House

  HERE’S SOME ADVICE for my kids that I think all of you parents can give your own children on the other big purchase of their lives: their first house. If you don’t think that buying a house is the greatest symbol of achieving the American dream, then put down this book and move to Russia.

  Dear Sonny and Natalia,

  One thing that I have attempted to beat into you, and I hope I was successful, is that you should be owners, not renters. Owning a home is a good investment, there are tax benefits, it will fill you with pride, it will force you to become handy and make you get your financial shit together. And you won’t have to deal with douchebag landlords.

  But here’s a fair warning. Owning a house will turn you into an asshole. Your mother says that’s when I became one. Pretty much since the day we met, we have had a constant running dialogue about me being an asshole, but when you were eight we finally nailed down the point of no return, the moment when I made the final conversion to full assholedom. She said it was when I was thirty-four, and I bought my first house.

  Nine out of ten asshole-ish behaviors are connected to your home. You have to yell at the gardener for leaving the pool gate open for the thousandth time, you have to yell at your kids for scratching up the hardwood floor and you have to scream at your wife, “I’m asking you to call the carpet guy, not clean the carpet yourself!” I think when you sign the deed to your house, the realtor should present you with the keys, and a brown blazer with a toilet paper roll embroidered on the lapel and say “Congratulations, you’re now officially an asshole.”

  When you’re renting, you don’t give a shit about your domicile. It’s temporary. If your friend drops a bowl of salsa on the carpet you’re pissed, but not irate. You know that eventually you’ll just move out and move on to another rental. When it’s your home, that means you own said carpet and can do math on how much you paid for it and how many more hours you’re going to need to work to replace it. So, Sonny and Natalia, get ready to become assholes just like your old man.

  But I’d rather you be assholes than losers. The renters reading this are now pissed, but please, take it as motivation and coming from one who knows of the loserdom whence he speaks. My history with home-owning and shitty apartments is well detailed in my second book, so check it out if you haven’t, and you’ll see that I speak purely out of experience and concern. I was pathetic back when I rented. Here’s a great way to tell if you’re a loser who
needs to step it up in the life department and get yourself into a home of your own: When you are asked to house-sit for a friend who does have their shit together are you excited? Can you not wait to get out of your squalid shitbox? Do you want to squat in that home and change the locks so that your friend can’t ever get in again? Then you’re a loser, and need to figure it out.

  I used to be that guy. I house-sat for a friend once and was far too excited. It was a two-bedroom with no pool in a dumpy part of Los Angeles, Van Nuys to be exact, but it was far superior to the crappy apartment I was renting with a couple of other losers. When that house-sitting run was done, I was deflated to go back to my apartment.

  Between the time you were born and when I’m writing this, we moved. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if, by the time you read this, we will have moved again. Anyway, a few years after you came along, we moved from the hills of Hollywood to La Cañada. Your mother and I decided that, among many other reasons to get outside of Los Angeles proper, we wanted you to have a place to ride bikes and a real backyard to do cartwheels and throw a football around in. That place was great. But, less than ten months after we moved there, into this great house with a tire swing and zip line, Natalia, you announced that you wanted to step it up and live in a place like Uncle Jimmy. So forgive me if I assume by the time you’re reading this letter that we’ve moved one or two more times due to your unreasonable demands.

  By the way, moving a lot as a kid is another in my long line of rich man, poor man examples: things the very rich and the very poor have in common that people in the middle class don’t share. When you’re super rich you move a lot, constantly stepping it up or moving when business requires. When you’re super poor you’re constantly on the lam or getting evicted. The middle class just buy a two-bedroom, ranch-style house in the burbs and wait to die in it.