My childhood Sundays included Catholic Mass, glazed donuts, and the WWF.  My father considered the World Wrestling Federation to be an important part of my education.  My brothers and I spent hours watching the WWF and debating the merits of Jimmy Superfly Snuka, my personal favorite, versus Rowdy Roddy Piper.

Wrestling was a religion in our house. I assumed Piper and Sissy would share a similar love of wrestling, but we’ve so far failed as parents in this regard.  Their wrestling education usually goes like this:

My partner, known by his wrestling name Flaco Taco, announces the upcoming wrestling match.  Imagine Jack Black as Nacho Libre if Jack Black were a tall, slender academic wearing glasses.

Flaco Taco yells “Show me your moves!” to Piper and Sissy. He then tries to tackle them and they run out of the room screaming.  “Come back!” Flaco Taco pleads, “Let’s wrestle!” The girls huddle together whispering and finally decide watching their father beg may just be worth it. After all, this wrestling thing involves fake names and dance moves, too. First, Squirrel Two Toes (aka Piper) twirls about waving a wand and takes a bow. Then she does a somersault. Flaco isn’t happy. “Um. Those aren’t wrestling moves. Those are flourishes,” he complains. Sissy, who in her younger wrestling days was known as The New York Crusher, dances into the room karate chopping the air.  Contact still hasn’t been made.  Flaco Taco yells “I’ll show you wrestling moves!” and grabs at their feet, trying to knock them over for a take down. There is more screaming. “Ow!  Why are you hurting us?” “Yeah, stop hitting! Mom, Dad is hitting!” Flaco defends his moves by again explaining the concept of fake wrestling. The girls stare as he speaks his foreign language.

“Dad,” Sissy asks, “did you want boys instead?”

Squirrel Two Toes sashays out of the room.

Oh, Superfly, where are you when I need you the most?