#13 - I'm a Good Dad

by James Baker

The title is not intended to be sarcastic.  I love being a father, and – seeing it as clearly as I can – I believe I’ve done my job well to this point.  I don’t mind getting on the floor with my daughter to play a little ‘Green Eggs and Ham’, or do a puzzle, or just sip some invisible tea alongside an overpriced American Girl doll.  I can talk to my 14-year-old son about anything ranging from the best way to blow up blocks of ice with mini-dynamite to the somewhat more sensitive subject of pubescent lust.  I can readily appreciate and encourage the imagination and artistry of my daydreaming middle son.  I try to show them what is pure and noble and right and just, without beating them over the head with too many teachable moments.  So I say with both humility and confidence, I am a good father.

As I sit by the fire, gently stroking my child’s thatch of curls and reflecting on my own benevolence, however, I am reminded of other times.  Different times.

Maim ‘em

Like the time I was plastic-sword fighting with Patton (my eldest) when he was maybe three.  He got a little too swashbuckling, and swiped his sword across my lip, which had roughly the same pain level as amputating my big toe with no anesthetic.  Without so much as a second’s worth of good judgment, I raised my sword far behind my head and swung it at his leg as if he were Al Qaeda.  I hit him so hard, my sword broke in half across his calf (it was actually a somewhat flimsy retractable light saber…not trying to minimize the offense, I’m just sayin’.).  I truly believe he was more frightened than injured, but he screamed until his lungs bled.  Good day for me, that was.

Shame ‘em

Same son during a little league game.  His grandparents had come out to see him play, and I was pretty excited to showcase his prowess on the diamond.  Early in the game, he hurt his wrist while attempting to corral a sharply hit ground ball.  I knew it wasn’t serious, but I saw him wincing as his team came in to bat.  He was due to hit in the inning, but really wasn’t interested in playing the rest of the game – hard to swing with a tender wrist, as you can imagine.  I, however, could not.  I went over to him in the dugout as he was pleading his case to sit out the rest of the game.  Our conversation:

Patton:  (with watery eyes) I don’t think I can play anymore.

Me:  Where does it hurt?

Patton:  (holding his wrist)  Right here.

Me:  Is it broken, or maybe just a little sprained?

Patton:  I think it’s just sprained.

Me:  Well you know, Nana and Huddy are here.  They drove across town to come see you play.  It’d really stink if you couldn’t finish the game.

Patton:  Yeah.

Me:  Maybe you should just give it a go, and see how it feels after your at-bat.

Patton:  But it really hurts.

Me:  Well I saw you fall, and it didn’t look that bad to me.

Patton:  I guess I could I try to go up to the plate.

Me:  You sure?  I don’t want you to do it just because they came all the way out here to see you play.

Patton:  Yeah, I guess I could try it.

Me:  Good job, chief.  Way to hang in there.

Rest assured, any time I refer to you as ‘chief’, it probably comes with a load.

Just forget ‘em

And then there was my coup de grace.  After leaving a going-away party in my honor preceding a month-long trip to Africa (because I’m just that compassionate), I was rushing home with a jeep full of neighborhood kids that had gone swimming at the party.  I was in a rush because I was hosting a nine-player farewell poker tournament in my living room (because I’m just that contemptible).  Once in the driveway, all the kids piled out and I ran in to count out chips before the rest of the crew arrived.  An hour into the game, I heard my 3-year-old daughter crying in bed.  I, of course, was in the middle of a hand and in no way could go check on her, so I gave my wife that ‘do-you-mind-looking-in-on-your-daughter’ look that I’ve mastered over the years.  She goes upstairs, and I hear her yell, “She’s not up here!”  She runs back downstairs panicked.  In fact, we’re all panicked.  Everyone takes off in a different direction trying to locate the source of the crying, but she is nowhere.  My wife darts outside, thinking she might be on the back porch.  I remember thinking how stupid it was for her to waste time checking outside, because it would be impossible for my daughter to have gone outside.  Which, of course, I was right.  She had not gone outside.  She had stayed outside. 

Still in the jeep.  Strapped in her car seat.  For an hour. 

I still thank God that it happened it at night, when the jeep top was down, and she had slept most of that time.  Otherwise, I would have been one of those self-absorbed buffoons you see interviewed on the ten o’ clock news, when you scream at the TV, ‘How could you have possibly let that happen?’  Still self-absorbed, mind you, just without the film crew.

As I clutched her tight in my arms, pacing back-and-forth in front of my house, I kept telling her over and over how sorry I was that I had done that.  After the tears dried up (hers and mine), I wasn’t sure she knew exactly what happened. Still needing to assuage my guilt, I asked her, “Mia, do you know what daddy did?”  Expecting a light-hearted, let’s move on-type of chuckle, she straight face replied, “Yeah, you left me in my car seat all night”. 

All night?  A little dramatic, don’t you think Mia?  But nothing that an extra dose of Benadryl won’t help you forget.

So which is more accurate?  The doting father willing to play tea party and shape his children into the likeness of Christ, or the rage-induced, scheming, narcissistic guy that makes you want to call CPS.  Ward Cleaver or Homer Simpson?  Both.  And neither.  You see, I can be either of those dads on any given day, but I suppose the truest thing that can be said of me is that I’m just a guy trying to work it out.  Loving but failing.  Sacrificing, but unable to break free from my own selfishness.  I am neither hero nor goat, no matter how much I long to be one and convinced I am the other. 

I am not deluded enough to believe that my failures won’t be some part of defining who my children become.  There are always consequences.  But my prayer is that they remember more sweet than sour; more tea parties than car seats.