The Perfect Dad

The first thing people say when they see me with my daughters, “I hope you’re saving up for all of those weddings.” The second, “Start polishing that shotgun to fend off those boys.” People say these two things to me at church, in the supermarket, while I’m pushing my kids on the playground swings—if it’s a public place, I need to be ready for the shotgun conversation. Sometimes I consider what these strangers are actually telling me to do. Am I supposed to open fire fourteen year olds with a sawed-off shotgun when they start bringing flowers and candies to my daughters? Or is it just supposed to be an empty threat like the parent who always sternly counts down, “3-2-1” but never actually disciplines his child.

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If you’re anything like me you’ve nearly unfollowed a lot of people because they’ve posted too many Instagrams of their kids. I get it. Your kids are cute. I can’t believe they just said that and this moment was so amazing. But sometimes I catch myself thinking: Do I really have to see so many pictures of your kids? You were my friend once upon a time and I don’t even know what you look like anymore. 

Then I looked at my feed and it was the same as yours. Kid pictures everywhere. My Instagram album looks like a preschool yearbook. Our kids are the most photographed generation of all time as if we’re making animated flip-books of their childhood. They will have no problems with paparazzi when they grow up because they had the paparazzi as parents. Our kids think it’s completely normal to take a bath and have that picture end up the internet.

If you’re anything like me and trying to figure out why this phenomenon is happening I’m going to explain it here… 

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1) Saturday Mornings Were Epic

We had no Netflix. No DVR. If we were lucky we had a worn out VHS tape with old He-Man episodes. But in the 1980’s Saturday mornings were a holiday. Children across America would wake up, fill giant ceramic bowls with Lucky Charms, and watch cartoons from 6am until noon. We invented binge watching.

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There is no exact name for this problem: Basement zombies. Football widows. I’m married to a great man for 7 months of the year and then football season starts and our weekends disappear. Bottom line: The return of football season can cause problems for married couples.

A few weeks ago I talked about how watching the Bachelorette makes me a better husband. One reader asked if I’d create a similar guide for women watching football. Before I go any further I need to say I have a bunch of daughters and I’m trying to be a better feminist everyday. I know a lot of women who love football. I play in fantasy football leagues where women outsmart me on waiver wires and destroy my teams on Sundays. So if you already love football and your husband loves football, rejoice. This post is not for you.

But football season is a tension in your home and your marriage then listen up because I’ve got something to say. Here are some ground rules.

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“Hey, Rob when are you guys due?” someone asks. “We’re due October 25th.” As soon as this answer leaves my lips I feel like a fraud. There is no WE in pregnancy. When it comes to pregnancy I am the backup quarterback who never takes a snap yet somehow gets a Superbowl ring at the end of the season. Pregnancy is the ultimate dividing line between men and women. In my opinion it’s what makes women better than men. Men can use urinals. Women can create human beings with their own organs. Checkmate, women. I’m just trying to say I feel lame writing this post before it starts. Still, I’m going to tell you what it’s like watching the woman you love grow a child inside her.

THE DISCOVERY

Women are always the first to find out they’re pregnant. Even before it’s official they have a good idea, like Sherlock Holmes deciphering each clue of what is happening in their bodies. It lets them process the meaning and emotions of the pregnancy before they tell the dad-to-be. Sometimes they know seconds before, other times they know the truth for weeks. When they finally tell dad most men have two reactions:  

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Dear Meltdown,

I really don’t like you.

Not my kid. Not my beautiful child, a gift from God, a human being with a radiant smile that scientists could bottle and use to cure depression. But meltdown you are taking a toll on my life.

I don’t even know how to deal with you. Have you ever seen a baseball player who took too many steroids, strikes out, and then destroys all the jugs of Gatorade in the dugout with ‘roid rage? That is you.

You make my daughter twist her body like a Cirque Du Soleil contortionist. If I try to pick my daughter up while you are around she squiggles out of my arms like she is Houdini and I am a straight jacket.

The worst part is when you show up everyone turns into a child psychologist. “Somebody needs a nap,” says everyone who has ever watched my child’s meltdown. And this is true except for the times that she just had a THREE-HOUR NAP and is still melting down.

There are of course lots of reasons you appear: Continue reading