I’m Gonna Be That Dad…

Letters of apology, written in advance to my young daughters for all of the ways I’m sure to embarrass them as they grow up.

I’m Gonna Be That Dad Who Offers The Worst Words of Wisdom

Dear Sweetie,

You’re reaching the age now when you’re beginning to question things. I don’t know if you’re aware of it or not, but you like to walk around the house pointing at things and saying, “Why?” That means your curiosity is growing and you’re only going to keep asking questions. They’ll become questions that dig deeper each time. What is that? Why is it like that? Why isn’t it like this? And so on and so forth. Eventually I’m going to have to start giving you answers and, well, that’s where we may run into some speedbumps. It’s not that I won’t be able to answer those questions for you, it’s just that the answers may be delivered in less-than-eloquent fashion. I’ll stumble and trip over my words. I’ll try tying together threads that only get more knotted as the conversation continues. I won’t be quick on my feet and I definitely won’t give you the kind of profound soundbytes that the dads throughout the ages have passed on to their children.

Take my first letter to you for example: I concluded it by quoting a line from a Gin Blossoms song. Maybe you thought I threw that on at the end for comedic effect. I didn’t. The lights in my wisdom library really are that dim and unfortunately, some choice words from “Hey Jealousy” is pretty much the level of quality you can expect from me going forward. Now, there’s nothing wrong with quoting song lyrics as advice. Some of the smartest, most well-spoken words in history have come from musicians. Bob Dylan, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, John Lennon, to name a few. All brilliant men who have contributed words that will last for generations. But my catalogue won’t go that deep. In that first letter I gave you a line from a song released in 1992. The ‘90s were a weird time for music and of all the artists I could have chosen to quote, REM, Nirvana, U2, etc. I chose the Gin Blossoms. That alone is proof of how deep my cultural shallowness goes and I’m sorry. If I ever try to sit you down, look you in the eyes and sincerely tell you something that includes the phrases “Hotstepper” or “Zoom-a-zoom-zoom,” you have my permission to tell people that I was adopted.

Of course, I’d love to be able to give you all sorts of Full House-level pearls but the truth is my style is less Danny Tanner and more Danny Trejo (“tell that bully that they F’d with the wrong Mexican”). My advice to you is to seek advice from someone else, because a lot of what I’ll be able to tell you will be filtered through Rose-from-The Golden Girls-colored glasses. Sure, on the surface you may think that I look like a really wise fella. I’ve got a couple college degrees. I’ve got a whole case full of books. I follow all the right people on Twitter and I’ve got more than three active Tumblrs. If that’s not the sign of a 21st Century intellectual then I ask you what is…and then I follow that up by telling you, “the exact opposite of all of that.”

Let’s start with the degrees. On paper, they’re great pieces of paper, but they also mean I spent 6 of my most formative years hunkered down in academia rather than traveling or having grand adventures or broadening my conscience through mind-altering drugs like all of the great poets, writers and artists of the past. I loved my time in school but it’s totally fair to say that it equipped me with more basic knowledge than wisdom. There’s a difference, you’ll see.

How about that bookcase you’re always trying to climb? True, it’s currently overflowing with bound pages but it’s a case study in quantity over quality. There’s a full shelf and a half filled with books published by the WWE. There are other books on those shelves but most of them are about movies or music or TV shows or aliens. There may be a few things by Gladwell and Vonnegut and Twain thrown in here and there, but the truth is those are the ones that I still haven’t read. Maybe Outliers or Slaughterhouse Five are the catalysts to changing my professional course but Goldust just put out his autobiography and I have to know how he came up with his facepaint designs. I AM NOT AN INTELLIGENT SOURCE.

As for the Twitters and the Tumblrs, in truth, they don’t mean anything. They’re just more noise. Go outside. Go to a museum. Read one of the books on that shelf (or any other shelf for that matter). Curate your own library of knowledgeable quotes and amaze me even more than you already do.

Now, you might be saying, “But Dad, there are far more places than just books and music from which to pull memorable mottos that will point my life in the proper directions. You watch lots of movies. Film is one of the most personal and lasting artforms. Surely you’ve gathered some exceptional anecdotes.”

To that I’d say that you’re half right. I have watched a lot of movies. Maybe too many, but unfortunately my capacity to retain the right lines from the films I watch is laughable. I remember only the dumbest parts of the worst movies.

“Don’t sweat the petty things. And don’t pet the sweaty things.”

Do you know what that line is from? You shouldn’t. It’s from First Daughter, starring Katie Holmes and Michael Keaton. Nobody should know that, but I do because I actually saw that movie. Twice.

“It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

“The older I get, the better I was.”

At first, those may seem like perfectly acceptable sayings and you may even be able to glean some sort of lesson from them. Here’s the thing though, the only reason I know those two is because I had them both on No Fear shirts. That’s not something anyone should ever admit. I’m still not even sure what the second one means, but that didn’t stop me from wearing it everywhere when I was 10.

Honestly, Aubrey, I think this letter is more for me than for you. I’m covering my tracks and apologizing for my shortcomings but I’m actually not concerned for you in this department because I know that you’re going to be unquestionably wiser than I could ever dream of being. You already throw yourself into your books, even if it is mostly because of the colors and the shapes and the Elmos. You’re a smart kid and you’re only going to get smarter. I can’t wait to learn even more from you. In fact, it’s already started. Just last week, I was sitting down, trying to figure what to do about my student loans and getting way too stressed about it all. You came up to me with nothing but love in your eyes and a booger hanging from your nose. You put your hand on my knee, looked up at me and said, “PANTS!”

And you know what? You were absolutely right.

You’re going to be amazing, with or without my advice. But if there is any one thing that I can impart upon you, it’s something that my dad told me and that his dad probably told him. Three little words that will stick with you and never steer you wrong:

Ask your mom.

I’m sorry. I love you.

Dad

I’m Gonna Be That Dad Who Waxes Nostalgic on Your Birthdays

Dear Girls

I’ll start this letter by getting the apology part out of the way first. I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to write you again — like going-on-two-years-kind of too long. But, I have a good reason. At some point since the fall of 2013, someone fed your mom after midnight and splashed water on you (the older one) and, just like that, you multiplied.

In fact, it was a three years ago today that you doubled (9:01pm if you want to be a stickler about it). You (the younger one) showed up and, again, just like that, my heart got all end-of-The-Grinch-y and grew an indeterminate number of sizes.

Since then — holy…how has it already been 3 YEARS?…the two of you have turned my (and your mom’s) life around in the most fun, frustrating, exciting and terrifying way imaginable. We’re twice as busy. There are friends we see half as often. The number of grey hairs on my head was on a steady pace to more than double before I threw in the follicle towel and shaved it all, and we’re infinitely more tired than we’ve ever been before.

It’s exhausting.

You’re exhausting.

It’s perfect.

I’d say that it’s just how I pictured it would be three years ago, but honestly, I had no idea what to expect. I was scared. Probably more scared the second time around than I was the first. Before four, it was the three of us. We had a routine. A schedule. We managed. We were young and first-timers and it was slightly chaotic. But it was strictly controlled chaos that we kept at bay with trips to the playground and out for ice cream. Adding a new element to that dynamic was like taking home the mystery box from the ancient Chinese secret store.

It freaked me out. Would you two get along? Would the four of us get along? Would we have to start our routine all over? Would I be able to give you both enough attention? Could I do it?

I’m happy to report that the answers to those questions are “Of course,” “Most of the time,” “HA!,” “Somehow,” and “Yeah,” respectively.

But back then, I couldn’t know. My head was too clouded with those worries…and with making sure your mom was ok in her hospital bed…and with curing the sudden case of Pink-Eye I caught in the delivery room…and with getting us all the hell away from Nurse Stella and her human sandwiches.

Luckily, we all made it out of there and I’d say that we’re doing pretty damn well.

Hopefully, when you’re older, you’ll be wiser than me and know enough to avoid tired cliches like this, but you really do make every day exciting. Even on the dreariest, stuck-inside-with-nothing-to-do afternoons, you’ll find something new to blow your minds (and mine too). Yeah, I loved watching you watch The Wizard of Oz for the first time, but that was also the day your little sister discovered how funny a cough could be and we learned that she laughed like Joan Rivers. And the first steps you took with your walker toy filled your face and my entire being with equal levels of pride, but that was also the first night your big sis correctly identified The Undertaker without my help!

There have been endless times like that these past three years. I’ve tried to capture or record all that I could (sorry for always having the camera out. That’s another letter for a later day). There have also been just as many times when I wanted to throw said camera onto a tire fire. For every hug and “Daddy? I love you” or “Dada” you dish out, you’ve got at least two “No that’s mine”s, unprovoked eye pokes, or calculated games of ‘And Now I’M Awake!’ on deck. Thinking back to where we were though, I can’t picture it any other way. I can’t think of either of you any other way.

As one of you gets ready to move further up the elementary school ladder and the other fully entrenches herself in her threenage years, I’m resolving myself to the fact that before I know it, you’ll both be riding a school bus, or dealing with besties drama, or asking the kinds of questions to which I’m still trying to find answers myself. I understand that our family honeymoon stage is nearing its end and that we’re only a few short years from shit really getting real, but I wouldn’t trade this weird, strange trip that is being your dad for anything.

So promise me that you won’t lose those thousand-watt smiles you both get the first time you see each other every morning. Before any neighbors or bus buddies or classmates entered the picture, you were each other’s first real best friend. Hell, one of you made up a song about it! No matter what, stick by your sister. You two make a crazy-good team.

This time three years ago, I was sitting in a hospital room staring at one of you, scared but thrilled at the thought of living with both of you. And just like that night, I’m wondering about what’s next, but without the worry, because you two are perfect together. Equal parts adorable, incredible and unstoppable — just like a Mogwai.

Thank you both, and Happy Birthday, Bright Eyes.

Love,

Dad

I’m Gonna Be That Dad With the Faux-Hawk

Dear Babygirl,

In the last few weeks you’ve mastered the word, “No.” It’s your new favorite word, your auto-response to nearly every question directed toward you.

I ask if I can have a hug. No.

I ask if you want to play. No.

I ask if you’re ready for bed. Noooo.

Right now, you don’t have a complete understanding of what the word means and because of that I don’t mind that it’s your default answer for anything not pertaining to puppies or Elmo. It’s also really cute, and so your mom and I (mostly) let it slide.

But as you get older you’re going to develop a complete realization of the power behind the word, “No.” You’re going to come to find that it can change the course of entire conversations, events and even relationships. You’ll also learn that there are different variations on the word, one of which is used to express everything from fear to embarrassment to denial and is preceded by the word, “Oh.”

And it’s because of this variation that I’m writing you this letter, because I’m afraid that you’re going to become exceptionally well-acquainted with it in time and it’s going to be all my fault.

I’m going to be that dad with the faux hawk. I want to just put that on the table right away so that you’re not surprised once you realize it’s not as cool as it sounds. I can at least take solace in knowing that I’m not your typical be-hawked adult. I don’t have any tattoos yet, and should I ever get one it certainly won’t be tribal. I don’t own anything by Affliction, much less Ed Hardy. I only have a passing interest in MMA and next to none in most other things Xtreme. I think Monster and Rockstar and NOS are gross and I was only into Trapt for like a month in ‘03.

Trust me, the faux hawk was not my first choice. I’ve toyed with different styles, even different hats. Nothing ever seemed to work. There’s really only so much you can do when your hair starts to develop the same volume as the final wisps of cotton candy. The origins of my haircut are as innocent as me making a shampoo mohawk, Emma Stone in Easy-A-style, one morning and thinking, “huh, not bad” when I saw it in the fogless mirror. My hair has been mounting a horribly slow retreat from my scalp since the end of high school and until it develops the strength to penetrate my first line of Rogaine Foamy defense, this is my comb-over (or rather comb-up-and-into-a-point). I’m not proud of it but it’s the cross I bear and it’s better than just shaving it all off, because my head is weird. (You might find out about that yourself one day, depending on the whole gene pool thing so again, up front, sorry).

I’d like to think that for the first few years, you’ll think it’s cool. Your friends will be like, “Oh wow, your Dad’s so cool. He’s got a mohawk.” And you’ll say, “Yeah, he’s the coolest ‘cause he takes me to get fro-yo and watches Gravity Falls with me AND he’s got a mohawk.” And then I’ll come to pick you up from school and your friends will see me in my Old Navy slim fit jeans and my ironic pro wrestling t-shirt and blue & yellow checkered Vans and watch me buckle you into your car seat. Then I’ll roll down the windows and turn up the volume so they can hear the Gin Blossoms CD I’m listening to and I’ll tell you that we’re gonna go home and play Guitar Hero 3 on our PS2. Your friends will hear this and they’ll all think, “She’s got the coolest dad” because they’re 5 and they don’t know better and they’ve never heard of male pattern baldness.

But then some years will pass and you’ll be 12 and I’ll still look like that. The point of my faux hawk may start a couple of inches further back on the top of my head but it will still be there because as long as there are still some follicles producing hair my head will remain just too weird to shave. My Old Navy slim fit jeans will probably be a little tighter, my ironic pro wrestling t-shirt will still be hilarious to me and God only knows what color shoes I’ll be wearing. I won’t bother asking you if you want to play Guitar Hero on our PS2. I know the answer, even though I did just get the Aerosmith version and you can totally manage without the red button (it stopped working during a “Mississippi Queen” solo). Your friends will hear the much more modern sounds of Yellowcard playing from my Hyundai Santa Fe and they’ll say, “Uh oh, Aubrey’s weirdo dad is here” and you’ll stop talking to the cute boy from your class or you’ll look up from whatever book you’re reading that’s infinitely more interesting than anything I ever read and you’ll see and hear what your friends saw and heard and you’ll say, “Oh God…Dad…oh no.”

I hope that you can accept this apology. Whether it’s now, when you’re still too young to be properly embarrassed by me, or in 5 or 10 or 15 years once you’ve figured out that, despite my outward appearances, I’m a pretty cool dad.

I plan to give you all sorts of great advice as you grow up, so I’ll end this letter by doing just that. In the words of the aforementioned Gin Blossoms, “If you don’t expect too much from me, you might not be let down.”

I’m sorry. I love you.

Dad

I’m Gonna Be That Dad with Zero Sports Knowledge

Dear Sweetness,

It’s football season again, which means that the sports talk will probably pick up around the dinner table whenever we go to your grandparents’ houses. You’ll hear words like “audible” and “play action” and “West Coast offense” and you’ll probably see me nodding my head and contributing the occasional “huh, really”s to the conversation. But I want you to rest assured — I have just as little a clue as to what any of this means as you do.

Don’t get me wrong, we’re still going to wear our Eagles gear with pride, but a large part of that comes from the fact that we as a family look fantastic in green. I’ve come to accept that I’ll never understand or appreciate sports as much as most dads. That may make me the odd one out amongst your future friends but it’s something that we’ll get past. I’m not necessarily going to be the weird dad (being the guy with the biggest action figure collection on the block is extremely impressive, thank you very much), but I am going to be the quiet one who spends most of his time picking at the gluten-free guac bowl and talking to your friends about why Space Jam is the only basketball movie that matters (because MONSTARS) at the Super Bowl party. So, yeah, sorry if that’s awkward or anything.

Still, despite my lack of knowledge, your mom and I have every intention of signing you up for sports in a few years.

She wants to watch you swim and do gymnastics. I’m sure she’s got visions of picking out the perfect leotard for you to wear. I bet it’s navy blue, maybe purple, and it probably has a diagonal pink stripe or three going all the way around. It will also most assuredly have sequins.

I’d wager that she knows exactly how she’s going to style your hair. A traditional ponytail is too unpredictable when you’re vaulting over the pommel or wowing the judges with your ribbon technique. The last thing she’s going to want to worry about is how and when your hair will hit your shoulder. Will it distract you? Will it distract the judges? Will it come undone? Dear god what if it comes undone?! I’m sure she could assuage those fears with a strong braid, but then you’re only inviting the very real danger of whiplash. No, I think your mom knows she’s going to go with a tight bun and that you’ll both be very happy with her decision.

I imagine one of her most anticipated moments is the bleacher banter with the other moms. She’ll do her homework and proudly tell them all how you’ve been watching tapes of Gabby Douglas and how she’s been reading that one book by that one coach. I’ve already heard her practicing lines to herself in the mirror like, “8.5?!?! Are you kidding me?! He’s kidding me right?” and, “Yes, that’s right. Her, the one with the gold and the tight bun in her hair. We ARE proud, thank you.”

She’s going to be fully committed to your gymnastic future, maybe even more than you.

I, on the other hand, want you to play soccer…but that’s mainly because I love orange slices and extended periods of rest.

Honestly, it doesn’t matter that we won’t be able to tell you who set what record without pulling up a Wiki page. We won’t be able teach you a proper pitch or show you how to keep your eye on the ball either. The important thing is that we’re going to be loud. After every homedown and touchgoal you score, you’ll be able to glance over at the bleachers and see us clapping and screaming louder than anyone else. Just look for the cardboard cutouts of yourself and the facepaint. We might not be any good at the games but we’ll be all-star cheerleaders.

I’m sorry. I love you.

Dad