During a recent family gathering we played a game that involves determining who in the group is best described by a phrase.
When the dust had settled, I held what I call the Ward Cleaver Trifecta. According to the assembled crew, many of whom were, in fact, my children, I was the one who would be most level-headed in case of a natural disaster, the one who gives the best life advice and the one they would be most likely to call to bail them out of jail.
And while I'm relieved I didn't pick up some of the other cards (including the one that asked who would make the creepiest clown) or they don't know I should have gotten that one that asks whose all-nighter would wind up in the Emergency Room (much, much younger, fire escapes come with big openings you can fall through and the only way to make broken ribs quit hurting is stop breathing), I do think my results reveal one clear thing.
I am a dad.
Yep, for the last 30 years or so (though it's likely I exhibited dad-like behavior long before that), that's been my principle role. And while I relish it, there are a couple of cold, hard realities the Lovely Mrs. Smith and my children should know (if they don't already suspect).
I don't know what I'm doing. And I never have.
This started early, and I've made no bones about it. The Lovely Mrs. Smith can attest that, as we were preparing to pull away from the hospital with our first child, I said, out loud, "I can't believe they're just going to let us drive off with her!"
What I should have said was, "I can't believe they're going to let me drive off with her, because my wife has got this covered. Me, well, if it's up to me, my daughter is going to be wearing her diaper on her head for a next three weeks until someone points it out."
It wasn't like I got any better the longer I was in the game. The fact is, due to a combination of biology, psychology and Nature's desire just to mess with you, none of my children were the same. What worked for one didn't work for the others. They literally all zigged and zagged in their own odd ways, often all at the same time. Which made theme parks interesting, by the way.
The reality is just about the time you figure out how to be a parent, you don't have to be one anymore. You slide, effortlessly, from "directing" to "advising." And as we all know, free advice is worth what you pay for it.
Which is an incredibly "dad" thing to say, by the way.
And don't give me the, "Well, you're a grandparent" line. That point about all of them being different? It wasn't unique to my offspring.
Besides, my role as a grandparent is to teach them how to squirt whipped cream directly from the can into their mouths without hitting themselves in the eye, give them cookies I know their parents don't want them to have and use them as an excuse to see "Aladdin."
My supposed calm in the face of disaster? Probably more a result of the fact that I just don't pay as much attention as I ought to. And while I haven't had cause to collect any of my children from the County Airbnb, I have had previous experience bailing people out (see "all-nighter, emergency room ...").
And, OK, so, maybe I have been known to give advice that can loosely be referred to as "fatherly." However, changing the oil in your car regularly, showing up for work frequently and on time and not trying to hit a golf ball through what looks like Yosemite just because "trees are mostly air" do not seem to be pieces of advice that should come written on stone tablets. I may be getting way too much credit for my grasp of the obvious here.
But, as a father, there are moments in life you live for. First steps. Athletic success or at least participation without embarrassing yourself. Academic awards ceremonies. And the moment when your son leans over his offspring and whispers, "I'll give you a dollar if you eat these two Oreos and open your mouth in front of your mother before you swallow."
If and when that happens, I'll know my work is done.
Commentary on 06/21/2019