I received a phone call the other day at work that fathers of 18-year-olds rarely get. It was not my son pronouncing proudly that he had gotten straight A's on his winter report card, or that he had gotten a scholarship and will be saving us tons of money for tuition this fall, or a phone call to say that he finally cleaned his room and brought down his dirty laundry without first being asked. Nope, it was something even better.

The Boy had made my day with one small sentence: "Dad, you have no idea how much it pains me to admit this, but you were right and I was wrong."

I was in shock! The Boy had gone against the number-one rule of kids: never, EVER admit you're wrong, even if you are. And especially never admit it to your parents. This rule has been handed down from one kid to the next as far back as there have been children.

When I was a mere lad, I never admitted I was wrong; didn't have to. Fortunately, I came from a large family with four brothers and one sister that I could blame things on. And when that didn't work, the secret weapon did. But on one occasion, even the secret weapon didn't even work. That one time was at Cliff Condos.

Cliff Condos was the three-year dig into a sandy cliff two lots over from Neighbor Thomas's house. We, of course, lived next door to Thomas at 110 Flamingo Street. When I didn't return from my afternoon dig till well past dark one night, that's when the stuff hit the fan, and Dad hit the ceiling. He peppered me with questions: "Didn't you notice it was getting dark? Didn't you think we would be worried? When everyone else went home for dinner, why didn't you?"

When he was finished, my head was spinning. It was almost nine, and I still hadn't had dinner. So I did what any kid would do when facing the insurmountable odds of logic coming from a parent. I pulled out the secret weapon: The Excuse.

Over the years my brothers and I had learned that a well-thought-out excuse could get you out of a lot of trouble. And around our house, someone was always getting into trouble. When Dad finished berating us for what we had done wrong and just before the beatings began, there was always a short pause. He had to catch his breath. This was the only window of opportunity my brothers and I had of trying to convince him that what we did really wasn't as bad as he thought. And a well-placed, well-thought-out excuse at this point went a long way to minimize the punishment, and sometimes if the excuse was good enough, even eliminating it all together. That night my parents had sent the police out to find me and no excuse was going to make any difference in the punishment soon dealt by dad's hand. But I still had to try.

When the pause in the conversation came, I stood up straight and faced my dad like a man. I was only eight at the time, but there are some things from childhood one never forgets. This was gonna be one of them. I said sternly, with a slight quaver in my voice, "But Dad, I knew where I was."

My excuse was logical. My excuse had been well thought out. My excuse was short and to the point. In a word, my excuse was perfect.

As soon as Dad heard my excuse, he and Mom immediately left the room without saying a word. I thought our secret weapon had worked its magic again. Ten minutes went by, and I thought I was in the clear. That's when the door opened, and from the look on Dad's face, I knew that my well-thought-out, well-articulated excuse had failed me.

It wasn't 'til years later I learned the real reason Mom and Dad left the room that night. They had not expected such a logical answer to their questions. They left the room so they could regroup and decide how to proceed. Trust me when I say the way they proceeded worked. I couldn't sit down for a week, from then on I was always in by sundown, and even now I still remember the lesson I learned that day: If you're gonna do something stupid, you gotta be tough. Or at least have a really good, well-placed, well-thought-out excuse.

After The Boy explained to me why I was right and he was wrong and that there are just some things that one should not spray paint, he said something else that dumbfounded me: "Dad, I've learned that sometimes, when you realize that you don't know what you're doing, you need to ask for help."

He had no excuse for what he had done. Probably the most important life lesson of all, and he taught it to himself. Today is The Boy's eighteenth birthday, and it looks as if my job is close to being done. I have no excuses, either. He's turned out rather well in spite of having me for a father. If you happen to see him around town, tell him that his dad loves him very much and is mighty proud of how he turned out. I'd tell him but, like most teenagers, he doesn't listen to his dad anymore.