My Life as a Dad

Kurt Thurber

 

In the thousands of years of known human history, every level of brow has been used to discuss fatherhood. Bill Cosby, Louis C.K. and Dr. Spock occupying the highbrow spectrum, Hitler’s Dad, Danny Tanner and Cronus  slumming it in the lower-levels and  Hamlet’s pater familias, the former King of Denmark, somewhere in the middle (he could have hugged the Prince of Denmark once or twice, maybe that would have cut the brooding in half, I am on team Fortinbras). I have been a dad for three years and in the immortal words of Vonnegut, so it goes.

 

“Daddy, I want to see the cows”

The following is a short nonfiction glimpse into my trials and tribulations as a father...

 

As a father, I have found the greatest sense of triumph in providing moments of exclusivity, like taking my son to the National Zoo during a weekday afternoon. Maps had been studied. Routes planned to observe the most exotic of animals-- pandas, elephants, and in a grand finale, the cheetah cubs. Little to no crowds, the zoo was our oyster. First, up we see Zebras and Emus, “Daddy, I want to see the cows.”

 

My response, “We’ll get there, let’s see the elephants first.”

After the elephants and watching an orangutan regurgitate its food onto plexiglass six inches from my son’s face, we moved onto the big cats. The lions and tigers were both out walking around, “Daddy, I want to see the cows.”

I steady myself. I bend down and get eye level and use my nicest voice. I explain how neat it is to see the lions and tigers moving around and we can go see cows anytime and anywhere. I make valid arguments about how we should best budget our time to see the animals in the new North America exhibits. I cunningly play on my son’s love of baby animals by hinting there may not be time see the baby cheetahs if we choose to spend time with common farm stock. 

“Daddy, I want to see the cows.”

We go see the cows. Time ends. All that is left in the vacuum is the infinity that is a toddler’s ability to question.

“Look Daddy, cows.”

“I see them.”

“What’s that one’s name?”

“Tulip.”

“What’s that one’s name?”

“Rose.”

I identified Tulip and Rose over 25 times. The above sequence of questions was asked with undiluted curiosity and freshness.  We left the Tulip and Rose eating their hay as the sun began to set with tears and pleas of “Daddy, I want to see the cows.”

We see a bear, “Daddy, I want to see the cows.”

We see the wolves, “Daddy, I want to see the cows, please.”

We see seals and sea lions, “Daddy, how about the cows?”

We finally make our way to the Cheetahs. The sun is barely peeking through the grown trees of surrounding Rock Creek Park. We gaze upon the Cheetah cubs. They are with their mother chasing each other with exuberance.

“Look, baby cheetahs.”

“Daddy, what do you think the cows are doing?”

Defeated, I carried my son back to the car and strapped him into his car seat. Tulip and Rose have spun their magic and won this round. I have not the energy to be overjoyed that the zoo does not charge for parking after 6 p.m.

 

 

Kids are selfish from day one…

The moral of the anecdote above, other than the drawing power of dairy cows: babies and toddlers are self-centered. Babies do not care a fig for your sleeping patterns. They want to eat and they want a song. They want encores at 2 a.m. and 4 a.m.  It is all about them. The baby gets the cool clothes with cartoon animals saying pithy things or a favorite sports team. As a father, forget checking your ego at the door, your Id gets put on the backburner. That’s right, your unconscious desire to fight or flee, to eat and sleep comes in a distant second to an illiterate, way too small tax-break.

 

Things do not change in the next year or two. Sure toddlers develop a personality and can communicate. However, potty training is the devil’s invention. It is all about the books you will read them or the treats you will provide for using indoor plumbing. The Orioles make the playoffs for the first time in 14 years, toddlers don’t care, they want a third consecutive reading of “The Little Red Caboose.” You want to demonstrate the proper technique to go high on the swings. A toddler ignores your exploits and asks why you are not pushing them.

 

Then there is the mess. If there was ever a crime at my house every member of a CSI unit would have a collective brain aneurism. My son’s fingerprints are on everything. Forget about trying to find the perpetrator’s footprints through layers of teddy graham crumbs and dried play doh on the carpet. The Olympic Steeplechase is a stroll compared to trying to get from the living room couch to the kitchen without stepping on a toy train or a Cootie bug body. 

 

How do you combat this and keep your sanity? Keep reading.

 

 

Television is your friend…

Television is a faithful companion as a parent. Any parent, mother or father who touts their inner-fortitude for not letting their child watch a smidge of television is a fool. Call it a hunch, television is here to stay. I read to my son all the time. I can quote “Boogey Knights” page for page and have thought about using lines from “The Hound from the Pound” in my email signature.  I considered being an English major in college until I found something even more useless: political science. Television is an ally.

 

If I need to shower, make a sandwich or read Tolstoy in Russian by candlelight in the basement, I turn on the television. Yes, as a responsible highbrow parent you need to screen what a child should watch. Yes, “Archer” is a cartoon and hilarious, however, it should not be the first choice as a viewing selection for a two year old.

 

Not all children’s programs are great. Barney is garbage. Seriously, what middle-school aged students come back to elementary school every afternoon to play with their younger siblings and a purple dinosaur? Pure poppycock I say.

 

Even quality children’s programming will boggle the mind. “Little Einsteins” provides educational content and many questions-- one cannot simply drum and dance a ring back into Saturn’s gravitational pull.  Riddle me the science behind that, Disney. Why is Leo the only one who gets to drive Rocket? Why can’t June drive, is it because she is an Asian female?  Where is the Hispanic Little Einstein? Hispanic-Americans are the largest minority population in the United States. Do the Little Einsteins live in Arizona? Did he or she get deported? And so on…

 

Even with all that, I gladly leave my son to watch “Little Einsteins” or other shows- “Sesame Street,” “Chuggington,” and “Mickey Mouse Club” to catch up on folding laundry. While my son sits still, I get moments of quiet bliss with no one asking me about Tulip and Rose.

 

Only the beginning…

Thus ends my journey through three years of parenting. Bring on training wheels, paying for food outside of the kid’s menu, and 8 a.m. weekend soccer games. I am numb to pain.

 

I admit it, there are definitely some great moments. When my son snuck into the fridge and ate all the leftover bacon, never been prouder. He tells me I am the best or that he loves me, I put on two episodes of “Little Einsteins” for him (just kidding, I buy him enough ice cream to give him type 2 diabetes, more kidding). Watch my son climb a tree or swim under water for the first time, hard to be topped. If anything, parenting is about being there wherever your son or daughter may wander. So it goes.

 

Author Bio:

Kurt Thurber is a contributing writer at Highbrow Magazine. He is the proud father of Finn (pictured above).

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