Bad Daddy

My children are still toddlers, yet already they have no trouble letting me know the small but myriad ways in which I constantly fail them as a parent.

They ignore their toys that invariably trip me up in the kitchen, but gleefully point out to me the day-old food scraps on the living room floor, dust bunnies, cat hair, my drying hockey gear. One of their favorite things to say is "What a mess!" — which would be cute, if they weren't so damn judgmental about it.

Bad daddy.

When young E-O was just a crawling infant, she would literally stop halfway up the stairs to turn around and hand me the bit of paper or fuzz she had just found on the carpet. Thanks, kid. Now, pay attention to the task at hand.

I don't wipe their noses in time, nor brush their hair right, nor dress them in the right outfits. I'm too loud when they want to be quiet and too quiet when they want to be loud. I insist on eating before bedtime, at the table, and when possible, not allowing food in the hair. I'm bossy, yet apparently clueless.

Bad daddy.

From the holes they point out in my jeans, to the stain on my shirt, to the ever-popular "I smell something..." RK has upon receiving a good night kiss, looked me in the eye and commented, "Beer mouth." So as not to single myself out, RK has also noted this of my wife (as well as "wine mouth," I might add).

In our defense, we needed the drink.

Parenting is difficult stuff. It demands Trappist patience, combined with an ability to work on deadline, to multitask, and to push through physical exhaustion.

Young E-O has the agility and cunning of a samurai, the mindset of a middle linebacker, and the recklessness of a Kennedy. Older sister RK, on the other hand, has the stubbornness of a lug nut, the lungs of Lance Armstrong, coupled with the sensitivity of a morning glory. They are 17 months apart. They are in each other's business. E-O enjoys little more than smacking her older sister on top of the head. Over and over. This, of course, is occasionally funny in a Three Stooges way, but as you can imagine, RK audibly disapproves.

"Tell E-O to stop hitting me!"

RK, tell her yourself.

Bad daddy.

When we all get a good night of sleep, parenting is a completely manageable endeavor and one that I'm quite good at — but the perfect sleep equation is something that occurs approximately once in a blue never.

And so I fail. Over and over.

Such is my lot. But part of this whole parenting thing is the developing ability to understand that being a bad daddy has little to do with being a good dad. And my daughters' opinion of me can only go down as time too quickly pulls them into the vortex of their know-it-all tween and then teen years.

So I have no doubt that I will continue to fail epically. And I will fail and fail and fail, until one day, quite suddenly, I will succeed.

Until then, I'll just do what I've been doing, and when the situation calls for it, damn right I'll get my beer mouth on.

Comments

[Dan]

Your kids are right. You suck.

[Kerrie]

This post is great, BK... Send it to a mag--you should be paid for your suffering. ;)

[David P.]

You are clearly on the cutting edge, according to the WSJ:

Bad Parents and Proud of It: Moms and a Dad Confess
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123958114341312173.html

"Critiquing other people's parenting has become a sport for many mothers and fathers, aided by the Internet and the sheer volume of available expert advice. Now some parents, hoping to quiet the chorus of opinions, judgments and criticism, are defiantly confessing to their own "bad parenting" moments."