Kids and Money Braces, car seats, bicycles, little league, prom dresses, Nintendo ... Ain't we got fun? by david b. dawson As anyone east of the interstate will attest, whining has become a favorite pastime of the modern suburban male. The focus can vary, of course, but there are only two subjects that are worthy of a first-stripe whine: children and money. The song may be in a different key each time, but the refrain is always the same: There's not enough of one, and there's too much of the other. Or vice versa. There's no suburban monopoly on this particular song -- kids and money; money and kids. But it costs so damned much to raise families in baronial splendor out here that by now the two are somehow inextricably linked. Women seem to take this sort of thing in stride. Or maybe they're just acting like it, I don't know. All I can say comes from observing their habits, which seem to include shelling out huge sums for things like synchronized swimming lessons or ice dancing competitions -- using the rationalization that it's in the "best interest of the children" -- while simultaneously screeching about such outrageous expenses as magazine subscriptions or having lunch at Wendy's rather than taking a brown bag filled with last week's tasty leftovers. A while back, I ran into an old friend in line at the local Office Depot. We were both standing there with carts filled to the brim with school supplies for kids ranging from elementary school (lots of Kleenex and crayons) to high school (neon notebooks and scented gel pens). Being thoroughly suburban guys, we skipped the preliminaries -- "Wife and kids okay?" -- and went straight to the whine. Like a couple of matted coyotes in starched collars and rep ties, we raised our snouts skyward and began howling, right there in the store, intoning the same old song. Soon we were tossing licks fast as bluegrass players, our faces lighting up with knowing smiles as we found the rhythm of the whine: "A crib. Baby clothes. Rattles. Diapers. Cases of formula. Car seats. Ear plugs." "Gymboree, Suzuki violin, Water Babies, the stroller, the private sitter." "The twins' fifth birthday. The clown and the Moonwalk. Two-hundred guests. Treat bags, ice cream and cake, balloons, streamers, presents. It rained. Of course." "Of course. But what about the tree house? The swing set? Or the wading pool? A tricycle? A bicycle with training wheels? The slipped disk? The back surgery?" The questions went unacknowledged, and the whine intensified. "Cub Scouts, Brownie Scouts, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Eagle Scouts, Explorer Scouts." "Soccer camp, basketball camp, dance lessons, gymnastics, ballet lessons, swimming lessons. Did I mention the kids are very healthy?" "Very healthy. Yes, that's good. Tennis lessons. A basketball goal for the driveway. New running shoes every week. Karate lessons. Football leagues. Little leagues. Church leagues. Caffeine tablets." By now, some of the folks around us -- men, all -- joined our whine. We didn't invite them, they didn't ask. There was no need. A whine like this gathers participants the way a group of hobos somehow find the nearest open bottle of red grenadine. "Weekly allowance. A trip to the movies for the whole family. Large popcorn all around. Pizza Hut delivery when we got home." "Vacations. Destin. The cabin at the lake. The boat. The trailer. The camping gear." "Private school tuition. Clothes. Uniforms. Backpacks. Supplies. Band instruments. Music lessons. Imitrex." "Nintendo. Sega. Sony Playstation. Big screen TVs. Dolby Digital 5.1 surround sound. Speakers everywhere. Subwoofers. DVD. Satellite dishes. Cable converters. A computer in every room. DSL connections. Ethernet cables. AOL. Ritalin." "Car insurance. Driver's ed. Gas money. Bodywork. Prozac. Industrial-strength Prozac." "Prom dresses. Limo rentals. Corsages. Dinner at Aubergine. A hotel room." "College tuition. Dorm fees. Meal tickets. Textbooks. Transportation. Beer money. Luggage. Second mortgage. Third mortgage. Pawn shops." By now, we were an unruly mob, huddled around the Office Depot cash register, amazing ourselves at our ability to sustain this lament for such a time. Our wailing echoed through the vast store -- the uniquely mournful sound of tired men with thin wallets. "Cheerleading!" "Pediatricians!" "Orthodontists." This one struck a raw nerve, and we howled in unison: "Orthodontists!" Then, above the fray, my friend cried, "Wait a minute!" We all quit howling and panting heavily; we turned our snouts toward him. "This is what you get to do if you're lucky," he said. "What on earth are we bitching about?" Nobody had an answer, especially not I. We left with our tails tucked and our heads lowered into our haunches, laden with Back To School merchandise, with much to think about the next time we felt the whine begin way down in our throats. You can e-mail David Dawson at letters@memphisflyer.com.