Daddy Manifesto

I am a dad. It’s not sweet that I’m spending time with my kids. Because I am partially responsible for them, I don’t see taking them to play at a park as an extraordinary feat. In fact, I find it normal.

My wife is a lucky woman, that’s true. However, I doubt it’s because I’m interested in my kids. It’s also not because I make dinner, do the dishes, help with the laundry or wipe dirty butts. More likely, it’s because I’m available to kill small bugs.

Why do I make dinner? Because she gets home later and I like to be able to feed my family. Why do I do the dishes? Because I need something to serve dinner on. Why do I do laundry? Because nakedness is both socially unacceptable and cold. Why do I wipe dirty butts? Because they are dirty and need to be cleaned. I know my daughter appreciates it.

I’m a dad, so I watch a lot of children’s programming. Do I find this painful? No. Do I limit how much TV my kids watch? Yes. Do I stop them from watching shows because I find them annoying? No. The very nature of children’s programming requires that it appeal to children. Ergo, I’m not the intended audience. Am I disturbed that Calliou’s world seems to be disintegrating and that he seems to have untreated impetigo (explain a bald four-year-old any other way)? Sure. Nevertheless, my daughter loves the show and, to be honest, it’s watchable.

The fact is I don’t force her to watch the documentaries on the Mercury program that I Tivo all the time. She wouldn’t like them. Because they aren’t made for her. She doesn’t complain about my science shows, so I don’t complain about her children’s shows.

As a dad, I also have to listen to teen pop. Why? Because that’s what my nine-year-old daughter likes. I’m happy that she’s into music and I’m happy to let her follow her own interests. Would I rather listen to Yo La Tengo than Hilary Duff? Sure. But she wouldn’t. So we make allowances. It’s not my music, it’s hers and I’m not going to have a hissy fit because she likes something I don’t. I’m also not going to complain about it. When I was nine, I listened to Journey. Because that’s what was popular. If your kid likes music you don’t, get over it. He/She isn’t you and never will be. You can’t make your child into your image. Nor should you.

If my daughter wants to listen to the Black Eyed Peas, I’m happy to listen to it too. (Beside the fact that BEP are one of the more interesting and innovative Hip Hop groups.) If my three-year-old runs around singing, “Let’s get it started in HAH!” I am happy to oblige. Not only do I get it started, I bring it.

True, as a parent, I’ve given up a lot of stuff. I used to go to ten to thirty live shows a year. Now I go to one or two. One year, one of those shows was The Wiggles. And I had fun. I used to watch 14 movies a week. Now I’m lucky to watch one. In the theater? The last movie I saw in the theater was a family film. And I was happy to see it. I skip a ton of concerts I’d like to see. Why? Because I value my time with my family much more than I value two hours with David Byrne. Would I love to go? Hell yeah. Am I upset? Nope. Life is what it is and I am happy to accept what comes along.

Fact of the matter is, I have no concern about being cool. I’m a parent. Parents aren’t supposed to be cool. They’re supposed to raise kids. That’s what I do, I raise kids. I still listen to the music I’ve always loved. I still wear what I want and do weird things with my hair. But, unlike when I was younger, I do it because it makes me happy. Not because I want to make other people like me.

It’s okay to not be cool. It’s okay that other people see me as a parent. It’s okay that sometimes I go out with snot smeared on my shoulder. It’s a badge of honor I wear proudly. Someday I’ll probably wear black socks with sandals. I’m cool with that. I don’t feel it makes my sense of self suffer any. Will my kids think I’m cool? Nope. They never will. And I’m okay with that. Why? Because my job is to teach them right from wrong, good from bad. My job is not to make them think I’m the coolest person on Earth.

My kids will be who they will be. I will not force them into the mold of what I think they should be. Or to be a mirror image of me. Why? Because they aren’t me and I’m not their arbiter of taste.

Identity? Yes, I’m a parent. That’s what most people see me as. But those who know me also know all of my other interests. I’m also a geek. I’m a music nut. I’m a movie nut. I’m an avid reader. Does the rest of the world know this? Probably not. But I have damn cute, well-behaved, interesting kids.

So, I’m not cool. I don’t go out much. I dress funny. I take care of my kids. I feed my wife. I wipe butts. I do all of this because I love my family.

Not only do I do all of this. I do it all gladly, proudly. I enjoy it. I enjoy it because I’m a dad and I like being a dad. No, I love being a dad.

In the end, not all the hipster CDs, all the art house films, all the great shows, all the non-children’s television programming in the world could replace what I have.

What do I have? I have a lovely wife, whom I find more interesting today than the day we met. I have a sarcastic nine-year-old, whose mocking talents are starting to surpass my own. And I have a precocious three-year-old daughter who loves the world with an intensity that makes Lenny in Of Mice and Men look like an uncaring wimp.

I also have this: Gert calls me from her bed because she has something to tell me. What is it? “Well,” she says, “I just love you.” That’s worth far more than all the coolness in the world.