In honor of Father's Day and my daughter graduating pre-K, I am reposting an article from last year's Out & About issue on, er-um...paternal inheritance! Happy Father's Day!
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Turning a certain age as a father, you begin to realize that
many of the paternal clichés you grew up with are destined to become part of
your life once again. It’s different
than the parental curse. Naturally,
that’s when your kids act just like you did, or worse. No, this is when you slowly inherit all the
traits you secretly snickered at your dad about behind his back as a kid. It begins with not asking for directions in
your 20’s. In your 30’s, you plan Sundays
in front of the TV with precisely the same snack spread as your pop, right down
to the favorite stinky cheese and nostril-flaming mustard. In your 40’s, you can nap on command. No lie.
Until recently, I never understood how my uncle and grandfather could sleep
through what can only be described as sheer mayhem at raucous family
gatherings. And, snoring like only a deep sleep can produce. Formidable is the only word that comes to
mind.
But, what happens when the parental curse and the paternal
curse merge? I was having a rather
unsuccessful morning preparing the little one for daycare when she told me,
“N-O, spells NO.” I said, “That’s MY line!” Another back-atcha came when I grabbed her to
cut some of the roughly 20 minutes it takes to get her into the car seat, and
she turned just before I swooped my arms around her. She said with all the sincerity of a doctor
giving bad news, “Don’t even think about it.”
Four. Years. Old.
I am, and always have been, I suppose, the Master of Breakfast. It’s the first memory I have of cooking. Now it’s my gig, again. And, good thing, too. For my daughter, I usually have 7 or 8 viable
choices in the morning, all of which can be knocked out in 5 minutes or
less. I was making bacon for her last
month and asked, “What would you like with your bacon?” She said, “Sausage.”
Not all dad-isms, however, are offspring related.
For example, I confess a certain titillating feeling when I
enter the hardware store with a list of only two things to buy, and then I eye
up one of the liquor store-sized carts and begin planning an afternoon of
ambitious projects as I catch the heady aroma of fertilizer and garden hose
rubber. And, then I remember I only came
in for light bulbs and a bungee cord.
Perhaps the most cliché of all is the myth of our innate
penchant to barbecue big pieces of meat.
The steak is a lie. Well, partially. Yes, we can barbecue (and barbecue well,
thankyouverymuch), but the idea of sending dear old dad out to the back yard
for roughly three months of the year to cook was created by the charcoal and
lighter fluid lobby headed by an all-female executive board. Stick with me. They discovered that giving “the man of the
house” an important task like cooking dinner and the freedom to do it outside
in the warm sun, usually with a beer in hand and the game on the radio- well,
let’s be frank: it leaves a rather peaceful and drama-free household for the
female sisterhood to enjoy. I believe in
corporate America ,
they call this the “win-win”.
So, what else is there to look forward to? From what I’ve seen, there’s cutting the lawn
in black socks and sandals. Memorizing
all the channels on cable. Boasting proudly
about your electric lawn and garden grooming devices. I’ve not yet been stricken with the
thermostat bug. Though, I hear once you
start, you can’t stop. I’m okay with
all of this. It lends a certain air of lunacy
and confusion to your standing in the family.
It might even, if you’re lucky, get you taken off some important (read: annoying)
task, leaving you time, of course- to nap.
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