When I was first asked to be Sarah's godfather, I was completely baffled.
"It's supposed to be an honor," Sarah's mother, Karen, told me on the phone. "It's a great privilege."
It was a privilege, however, that I knew nothing about.
Is it like in the movie? I asked.
"What movie?" Karen said.
"The Godfather," I said. Where Marlon Brando plays Vito Corleone and Sonny gets shot at the toll booth and Michael becomes The Godfather and Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes.
"Maybe we'll ask our second choice," Karen said.
Who's that? I asked.
"Anybody," she said.
Which is her way of showing affection. Her husband, Mark, got on the phone.
"You really don't know anything about being a godfather?" he asked.
Nothing, I said.
"In that case," he said, "being godfather means you have to pay for the kid's college."
"And grad school!" I could hear Karen shouting in the background.
Would this be a state college or private? I asked.
"We've got 18 years to decide," Mark said.
Any other duties?
He thought for a second. "If you die, she gets everything," he said.
But this jogged some vague memory in my head.
Wait a second, I said, it seems to me the whole purpose of godfathers is that if you die, I get to raise Sarah.
"Before I would let you raise my daughter, I would put her in an orphanage," Mark said.
They are going to get very crowded, I warned. (I knew about Newt Gingrich before anybody.)
"Then we will leave a clause in our will that if we die and the orphanages are crowded, we want her raised by wolves," Mark said. "If no wolves can be found, you would come next."
It seemed like a fair deal. And as Sarah has grown into a bright and beautiful 7-year-old, my role in her life has become the Negative Example.
"If you don't eat your Brussels sprouts you will grow up to look like Uncle Roger, and you don't want that to happen do you?" Karen asks Sarah.
"If you don't clean your room this instant we will send you to live with Uncle Roger instead of wolves!" Karen tells Sarah.
It is quite effective.
A few days ago, I was on the phone with Karen getting present approval. I have been required to get the pre-approval from Karen for any gifts to Sarah ever since I sent Sarah an electric drill for her fifth birthday, which Karen did not consider age-appropriate.
It's a toy restaurant, I said.
"How many parts does it have?" Karen asked.
Who cares? I asked.
"You don't have to pick them up!" Karen said.
She had me there.
It's very educational, I told her.
"What's the age range?" Karen asked.
You can't tell parents the truth about this. If the age range is 3-6 and you get it for a 6-year-old, that is like saying the 6-year-old is as dumb as a 3-year-old.
The age range is from, uh, junior to senior in high school, I said. You have to have combined SATs of 1200 just to open the wrapping.
"I am sure Sarah could handle it," Karen said. "What's in it?"
It's 95 pretend foods, including bacon and eggs, pancakes, burgers and fries, and pizza with four toppings, I said.
Karen was silent and I knew she was visualizing picking up all those pretend edibles every day.
"I'm not sure she'll like it," Karen said.
Put her on the phone, I said.
After a moment, a tiny voice said, "Hello?"
"Someday, and that day may never come," I said in low and grave tones, "I'll call upon you to do a service for me. But until that day, accept this justice as a gift on my daughter's wedding day."
The phone fell to the floor.
"She's crying," Karen said. "I told you not to do your Brando impression anymore!"
I'll make it up to her, I said. I'll bring her the toy restaurant.
"OK," Karen said, "but when you do, don't make her kiss your hand. It's creepy. And see if you can get her to pick up the toy food by herself."
Hey, I said, I'll make her an offer she can't refuse.
@4 Now if I could only find a plastic horse's head.