My recent birthday brought back a happy one.
Flashback. Early 90's. I am turning 6. Ruthie, ever the theater major, is in the midst of one of her massive productions which she called my birthday party. Everyone present has on full Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle regalia. Complete with Cardboard shells and green leggings and whatever color bandit-mask the six year old felt meshed best with his personality.
The girls invited were given the short end of the stick and were all April O'Neill, clad in yellow with prop television network microphones. It is cake time.
I am walking on my deck in my backyard, nearing the cake to blow out the candles...
"Oh No, Harry, look who it is!"
Ruthie points at an upstairs window at my house. Bill leans out of the window and screams "It's me, Shredder!"
He is wearing a black robe with duct tape gauntlets and a duct taped hockey mask.
One kid cries, I cry, another cries, and since crying is like Ebola amongst 6 year olds, it takes around ten seconds until 30 children dressed like crime-fighting, martial arts using turtles are wailing in unison.
Fast forward one year. 7th birthday. The Ninja turtles are for suckling babes, I exclaim. I am 7, and cowboys and indians jives better with my more mature sensibilities.
In whispers, Ruthie asks, "Bill, do you want to pop out as a corrupt sheriff or a terrible warrior chief?"
Bill replies, "I want to be Shredder."
And he is.
The moral is I am truly blessed to have the greatest parents any child could ask for.
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