Teenage children think like they own the franchise on cool, y’know. They really do, and they own it solemn bad.

They watch what you do, y’know, like the bearded one, that Santa. They make a list, y’know. They check it twice. But instead of leaving coal in your stocking once a year, they issue tickets all year long to those like, in violation of coolness laws. They function kinda like self-appointed Cool Police, with uniforms and everything, except like, no car.

Bummer.

For example, when our children were teenagers, they thought anybody who fell asleep to Otis Redding was terminally uncool. They thought anybody who didn’t appreciate the “artistic” images on MTV must be a nerd, like barf. They had a sense that people who insisted they turn down the volume on “Beastie Boys” would never in this lifetime “get it.”

Their parents, like, they really didn’t “get it.”

For some parents who have a life-view of themselves as cool, this must come as quite a trauma. Not for me. Like, I was a band nerd from the age of 10. Not for Henry. He made a stab at cool in his younger days, but he went into accounting anyway. Blew the whole deal, y’know?

Just because we make no claim on cool does not mean we do not appreciate play, however. We can do play.

But when our children were in their teen years, we always received a citation from the Cool Police when they discovered us in the act.

Several years ago, for example, when hormones first initiated contact with our first-born son, Henry came in one evening feeling good. Like, y’know, that old song, “I feel good!”

Maybe “The Big Chill” soundtrack was playing while I cooked supper, but he sort of almost “danced” as he set his papers on the cabinet and said hello.

Walter Munson made slight gagging noises. “Barf!”

“Hey, leave your Dad alone,” I called out. “We never said we could dance, y’know?”

Yeah, like in that other old and un-cool song: “Your moma don’t dance and your daddy don’t rock’n’roll.”

As Henry always said, “All I know about music is what I like—and how to play the radio.”

True. It wasn’t hard for him to remember what he liked — Percy Sledge and Otis Redding pretty much summed it up. And he could play the radio. It had an on-off button. But heaven help us if he tried to manipulate a tape, CD, or record player.

“You shouldn’t laugh too hard,” I cautioned Walter Munson. “For all we know, you could be among the musically-impaired, too. It runs in families.”

Yep, I actually said that to the kid who now owns the music store. His reply?

“Hey, Mom. It wouldn’t be my fault. I’m not the one who married him.”

Well, like, uh-duh.

But I didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

A few years later the girls and I went to the beach with Henry. (Our first-born was far too cool to go anywhere with his parents by then.) Henry and I planned to walk on the beach one morning, and he wore khaki shorts — with black socks and white tennis shoes.

Janie all but barred the door. “Hey, Mom, you always yell at me when I try to go out dressed weird.”

There is a difference between black socks on the beach and wearing men’s plaid underwear over shorts and torn purple tights. I swear, I really think there is. (My Cool Police ticket is probably in the mail.)

“Hey, leave your Dad alone. He’s on vacation, and if he wants to wear black socks…”

“Well, it’s not my fault. I’m not the one who married him.”

Well, like, uh-duh.

But I didn’t know what to say. Not yet.

Still, I did think about it….

A couple of years later, Buffy and I were talking about what a bear Henry could be during tax season when he came home, dragging after 14-hour work days — with his eyes so tired they’re all but crossed.

Now that she’s in family business, she would probably say to her young self “uh-duh.”

At the time, she answered, “Well, it’s not my fault. I’m not the one who married him.”

I’d been waiting on that. I knew it was coming around again, and all I had to do was bide my time. This time, I was pumped, I was primed, I was ready. Y’know?

“Yes, Buffy. I married him. I picked him out special because he was fun and he was funny—and I knew he would make beautiful babies and be a real good Daddy to ‘em. And he has been fun and he has been funny, and we have these entertaining, pretty children — and he’s been real good Daddy, hasn’t he?”

She didn’t know quite what to say.

I pressed my point. “Hey, it could have been worse. I went out with some real jerks in my day. You could have been really out of luck — and not nearly so pretty.”

She couldn’t admit I was right. I understood that. She might have received her first Cool Police ticket if she conceded a point to a parent, y’know.

She simply nodded at first, taking it in. “Yeah, well, he is a good Dad. I know that. Like, weird, why’d you get so serious all of a sudden? I didn’t mean anything by it, y’know, like…”

I know.

My funny Valentine may not be cool. Neither am I. But we have laughed together and played together and raised children together for 40 years now. Y’know, I hope we have like at least another 40.

Happy hearts and flowers, Henry.