I’ve tried to make our children my friends. But I found out right away it doesn’t work, because friends that I’ve had, I remember, they had jobs, and any friend I loaned money to became a non-friend, because they wouldn’t pay it back, and after a while I just stopped talking to them. But that was a good thing.
You can’t do that with children. You have to talk to them for the rest of your life.
When I used to drive, I recall driving my kids to school one day, and they asked me to stop the car two blocks away. I asked why. They said their friends were making fun of them because they were riding in a nice car.
Why can’t these kids riding in the backseat defend me? I feed them, I clothe them, I buy them presents, many times against my own best wishes. And yet they don’t have enough love for me to defend me against what their peers are saying about them riding in a nice car.
I bought a nice car for myself. I didn’t buy a car that my children’s peers would find acceptable. I’m really sorry that I didn’t. (No, I’m not.)
Anyway, my children asked me if I would stop the car two blocks away from the school so they could walk and not be seen in the car with me. We live approximately eighteen miles from school. I’ve driven them every day, but now they tell me I have to let them out two blocks from the school so they can prove they walked to school and their friends will not make fun of them. What did I say to them? Nothing. I made a U-turn and took them back a mile and a half. And then I said:
“Okay, get out. You can walk to school.”
They started yelling and screaming:
“We want to talk to Mom!”
Thank God this was before cell phones.
“Hey, man,” I told them, “this is my car. You don’t have a car. And first of all, none of you happen to have jobs. You’re not earning any money. And out of the goodness of my heart I drop you off at school. And even though the state is protecting you, there isn’t anything that says I must drop you off wherever you want me to drop you off. So I’m going to let you off here and you can walk a mile and a half to school and I’ll stay far enough behind so your friends will never know I watched you.”
So I made them get out. I could see them arguing, and obviously someone was mad because they started shoving each other. I watched them argue for maybe four minutes. Then I drove up and I said:
“What are you doing?”
They were blaming each other—it was her fault, no his fault, etcetera—so I said:
“Get in the car.”
Which they did. And I asked:
“Do I have to stop two blocks away?”
“No, no, no, we’ll go, we’ll go.”
So we drove up to the school and I said:
“Wait, not yet. Stay in the car.”
I got out and I walked around and I made an announcement:
“My name is Bill Cosby and these are my children, and I want everybody to know that this is not their car. This is my car. And I have offered to be their chauffeur, and if anybody wants to make fun of them because they have a chauffeur, well, why don’t you talk to your parents; maybe they will chauffeur you around.”
The children got out of the car and for about five or ten steps they looked like those people on the five o’clock news who were being arrested. They were really trying to crawl and hide.
They didn’t talk to me for about two days. I mean, it wasn’t nasty; they were just very quiet.
I said, “How are your friends?”
I didn’t get any answers at all. Which was fine with me. Because that was the last I wanted to hear anything about peer pressure. If you’ve got peer pressure, have your peers pick up the tab.
