Dad life

I’m not a great dad. I try hard. There are moments when I totally kick ass at being a dad. And then there are other moments when there’s a grizzly bear charging my way and I’ve lost track of my kid and our father-daughter camping trip may not create the kind of memories I had hoped. Ha ha. But that’s a story for another day. Overall, though, my fatherhood grade is a solid B probably. Good, but not great.

The one big thing that prevents me from reaching great dad status is that my children are girls. This is not intended as an insult to my daughters: both are smart, fierce, curious, funny, creative, generous, beautiful, more wonderful and special than certainly anything I deserve. It’s just that I don’t know how to say the right thing at the right time to girl children. They’re like, daddy my tummy hurts, and I’m like well, you’re going to have to suck it up. You’ll be fine. That’s my go-to response for pretty much every problem brought my way. Suck. It. Up. You’ll. Be. Fine. Although to be honest more than once the children have reacted to my suck-it-up response to a tummy ache by vomiting on the floor. Even as parents, we can’t always be right.

You’d think my kids would stop coming to me with problems and complaints, but no. And when they do, apparently my suck-it-up Dad Mantra can be perceived as insensitive and clumsy, as my wife, Carissa has gently explained to me. And by gently explained to me, I mean she has said please stop being an insensitive, clumsy jerk to our children. So now I understand that if both kids are crying and Carissa is shooting me her patented eye-rolling what the fuck is wrong with you look, it’s time to rethink my interaction.

Even when I try to be tender and consoling it can turn out pretty ugly. One night after putting the kids to bed, I heard my oldest daughter, who was probably nine at the time, sobbing in her room. I poked my head in and asked what was going on. She’d been reading and had just finished the classic kids book Where the Red Fern Grows. I vaguely remembered the book from when I read it a hundred years ago and remembered it had a sad ending. The dog died, right? That’s tough. I stroked my daughter’s cheek and continued. But at least the boy still had his other dog, the auxiliary dog, right? Nope, I got that part wrong and the sobbing turned to full-throttled wailing. (SPOILER ALERT: It turns out the auxiliary dog, Little Ann, had also died, from loneliness, due to Big Dan’s death at the hands of a pack of raccoons or something).

You may be wondering at this point why I have given myself a solid B for fatherhood. Fair question. The answer is that it’s mostly because I actively engage with my kids on a regular basis. Also I can make them laugh and I let them watch age-inappropriate television shows and movies, but it’s mostly just being there when needed. It’s really that simple. I’m not saying that I’m better than other dads (I see you guys out there coaching pee wee soccer and volunteering at your kids’ school and all that stuff). The fact is much of my extra dad effort is the product of necessity rather than my pure awesomeness. My wife travels a lot for her job. A lot. As I write this she’s in Switzerland. In the past month she has also been to Wyoming and Idaho (both places where I have previously lived and loved and which I like to think of as the Switzerlands of America), as well as Oklahoma and West Virginia (which I like to think of as the Oklahoma and West Virginias of America), Pennsylvania, Michigan, and probably some I missed. Generally I don’t even care where she’s going she’s gone so often, but this Switzerland trip pisses me off a little bit while I’m here juggling kids and work and trying to find time to fit in a long run while she’s texting me selfies with the Alps as a backdrop. She even texted to brag about a side-trip to Liechtenstein (which I hope turned out to be the Mississippi of the European Union).

What I’m getting at is that out of necessity I have the privilege of a lot of quality time with my two daughters. And I’m serious about that being a privilege. It’s not all the time – that would completely suck and I empathize with and salute all you single parents who are pulling that off. But my two girls, who are now thirteen and six, cannot avoid me by going to mom all the time. Sometimes they need to rely on dad. Need a hug? Need tucked in? Need a snack? Need someone to sign your cello practice log? Need someone to walk you to your bus stop? Run out of tampons? Sorry girls, but you’re stuck with dad.

Dad has delivered, mostly. Homework gets done. Piano practice gets done. Play dates get negotiated. Soccer games and practices are attended. Regular bathing schedules are enforced. Teeth are brushed and hair combed. Feminine hygiene products are purchased. My dad work is not always a work of art, but like I said, I try. By necessity, some times I have to try harder than other times. Like when Carissa spends two weeks in the Alps while I’m home explaining to a six-year-old how someone got pregnant without being married (pro tip: I went all biological detail on her until she asked me to stop talking).

My dad work is a work in progress, to be sure. Probably the biggest advance I’ve made is to realize that sometimes when my girls come to me with a problem, what they want is a hug and not a lecture. Sometimes I suck it up, keep my mouth shut, and give them hugs. Not always, but sometimes. So I’m giving myself a B – good, but I have plenty of room to improve.