Our first Tax Deduction turns 15 this week, and everything is going to be okay.

When people unfortunate enough to be in my presence hear about TD#1 turning 15, it usually elicits one or more of the following reactions: grimace with knowing head shake, eye-roll combined with a resigned moan, a congenial double-pat on the shoulder, and in one case the phone number of an insurance agent who can allegedly keep the cost of my car insurance from matching the national deficit.

I've never really pined for the days of my youth, and I've always looked forward to birthdays. If I understand the concept of birthdays correctly, the goal is to keep having them. The only thing that bothers me about my children having birthdays is that the older they get, they lose a little of the “Daddy is a hero” thing and gain more of the “Daddy is arguing with the remote” reality.

As for TD#1 growing up, it's nice to reminisce about her as an 18-month-old running around the house in a diaper using an empty plastic ginger ale bottle as a conductor's wand. but it would be equally troubling if she were still doing that 13 years later. 

Dealing with the kids growing up hasn't been too tough, although I will say with The Wife and two daughters in the house my eyes have been opened wide when it comes to the amount of time, dedication and resources it takes to properly take care of a woman's hair on a daily basis. In all honesty, the invasions of countries have been planned and executed in less time.

When the hairdryers at Dawson manor crank up every evening, we don't even have to run the heat for about an hour. I don't mean to say they use an excessive amount of electricity to operate their hairdryers, but while they're doing it I can look out the window and see the lights dimming on our neighbor's houses. 

One of the perks of being a parent is the ability to playfully terrorize the kids every so often. With TD#1 heading to the DMV office on Monday to obtain her learner's permit, I've taken the liberty of disassembling her study guide and replacing every third page with an excerpt from the Burt Reynolds autobiography But Enough About Me. Just last night while TD#1 was studying, she flew into a mild rage when the chapter on turn signals suddenly morphed into a story about Dom DeLuise spiking Sammy Davis Jr.'s orange juice on the set of Cannonball Run.

While writing this on Sunday afternoon, another way to mess with my beautiful firstborn popped into my head. With the help of The Wife, when TD#1 goes to sleep tonight, we'll be removing all the tops from her closet except for a "My Dad Is The Best" t-shirt I recently purchased. Leaving her with only one choice of shirt for her trip to the DMV ensures that every time she looks at her learner's permit, she'll be reminded just how awesome her father is.

The only thing I have to figure out now is whether or not The Wife and I will be able to hear our alarm clock over the screams of TD#1's discovery of her only choice of shirt in the morning. The way I see it, we’re on the hook for the car and insurance, so we're entitled to a little entertainment.

I can't wait to see TD#1’s expression when we give her the keys to her 1978 Gremlin. Don't worry, we put new brake pads on it and the 8-track player still works.

Jon Dawson's humor columns are published weekly by Neuse News. Contact Jon at jon@neusenews.com and www.jondwson.com.