The only two dads in attendance at two 4 year-old birthday parties this past weekend, Craig and I had a chance to get to know each other as our little girls frolicked in the bliss of ringing up orders of plastic fruits and vegetables on a play cash register.
Our conversation began innocently enough. I chuckled at Craig trailing his youngest, an ultra-busy 18-month old who, he claims, only sleeps a few hours at a time. Craig’s weary eyes widened as I told him that I do, indeed, have five kids.
Smiling, Craig quipped, “I heard about you guys. Not sure how you do it. I’m exhausted with my two girls!”
I should have laughed off the comment or shot back a witty, “me neither” type of response.
But, I didn’t. And, now a few days removed from our introduction, I feel that I owe a Craig an apology for the twenty minutes of conversation that followed.
Yes, Craig, I’m sorry for telling you that parenting only gets worse from here. That, although the manual effort that little ones require is exhausting, it pales in comparison to the mental anguish of a tween shunning every piece of solid, dad advice that you too willingly will hand out as they stare at their phone and rush out the door the eighth grade friends whose company they’d prefer.
I should also apologize to Craig for poo-poo’ing the notion that his 4 year-old reading at a kindergarten level was a big deal. Maybe I should have let him have that prideful moment, rather than shooting it down with a dismissive stare, an eye roll in the opposite direction, and reply that, “they’ll all sink back to the average soon enough.”
It’s not Craig that brought my inner jerk out. I do this every time I hang out with parents of younger kids.
I’m cordial and smiley to their young, parent faces. I exchange pleasantries and laugh at their kids’ short temper or odd ways of expressing themselves. I join in the baby-talk that asks their penis-pinching boy, “Do you need to go to the potty?” every few minutes.
This rosey exterior masks the suppressed, snotty, internal voice that begs to scream, “OMG, you have no idea what REAL parenting is!”
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How might Craig respond to an unfounded threat of another kid shooting up the school? During two such instances this year, I sent my kids to school – what would they do?
What about social media bullying? When kids are four, at least they tell classmates how they feel directly to their face – not via a curt Instagram post that lives forever.
That is REAL parenting, right?
There are so many bigger issues ahead of parents like Craig. And, in these environments, my nasty, skeptical, worn out, internal voice clamors, “Your kid is under 5, Craig! Complain to me when you have my problems.”
Just then, though, my 4 year-old daughter, Emersyn, comes up to me to give me a hug – just because. Then pulls my hand to help her with the monkey bars she can’t yet reach.
I gladly oblige, leaving Craig to heed my premature warnings about the parenting challenges to come while charging after his little toddler as she destroys another tower of soft building blocks.
As I help Emersyn reach the last bar and land safely on the other side, I wonder if she knows how differently I’m raising her relative to her other four siblings.
Just like Craig, I used to gush about my kids’ advanced intelligence, their superior athletic prowess and their ninety percentile head circumference. Not with my youngest though.
I know I owed Craig an apology.
Maybe, though, I owe Emersyn one, too.
I hear ya!!! These middle school years are brutal and scary…. at BEST