I was up on a roof today.
I wasn't supposed to be there.
The Boy and I went for a walk while we were waiting, took a wrong turn down a hallway and ended up on an outdoor landing. Judging by the coffee-tin ashtray and discarded filters, we had stumbled onto the secret smoking area of the buildings inhabitants.
There was an open stairwell leading to the roof.
Seeming as I've been quite adventurous lately, I thought "Why the hell not?" and we headed upwards. The lack of decent security in this place is a disgrace.
As we got to the roof and looked out, the ocean on one side and parking for this massive commercial complex on the other, I felt the need to tell The Boy something special, something that would stick with him through all the stages of his life.
"Watch out for the birdshit, son."
That's the best I could come up with? You've got to be kidding me.
But it's true. No matter how high up you get, and how little some of the things in this world may seem, you still got to keep your eye on the ground and make sure you don't step in the shit.
And if you do, for chrissakes, at least wipe your shoe off.
I don't know if the importance of my words sunk in, because at that time he was looking out at the boats on the water, the cars on the lot, and possibly down some woman's top. (He is my boy, after all.)
Lessons learned, we cat-footed our way back to the safety and silence of the hallway whence we came. As I opened the door for The Boy to step in, he stopped, looked around, and wiped his feet on the mat before going in.
Am I a great fucking teacher or what?