I forget what ignited their fight, but what I clearly remember is the family man shouting, “Don’t EVER talk to me that way IN FRONT OF MY KIDS!”
I thought this was a curious thing to say. It’s as if his reputation as King Dad, Ruler and Knower of All Things (except as overruled by Emperor Mommy) was somehow placed in jeopardy by a few angry words from a complete stranger. Is a Dad’s reputation to his kids really that tenuous?
Dads, of course, have an internal voice that compels us to impress and look strong in front of our kids. We can’t help it. Even the least skilled of fathers – and here I know what I’m talking about – find something to fix, create, improve, and otherwise amaze their kids with. My children are young, so when I magically restart the computer or reattach the door of a Barbie Duplex, it’s like bringing fire to the natives. I know I’m only a few years from becoming “Pathetic Dad” who can’t operate a satellite radio or just get dressed without embarrassing myself, so I’ll take what I can get when I can get it.
Dads always pass down traditions and skills to their children, like car maintenance, power tool expertise, hitting curveballs, and leaving the toilet seat up. My father passed to me the fine art of returning store-bought merchandise. Laugh if you will, but making effective returns takes diplomacy, cunning, stamina, and long-line endurance. Recently I was showing my son Evan how, with the proper alignment of strategic returns, coupons, and mild tax evasion, I was able to technically have Toys R Us pay us to receive a Bionicle playset instead of the other way around. I was proud. He was unimpressed.
But on the ride home, I watched Evan excitedly open the toy, and explain to me the various ways this Bionicle was fundamentally different from the hoards of Bionicles already guarding his bedroom from sibling invaders. Every comment began like this: “Dad, check this out…”, “Dad, can you believe this…”, “Dad, what do you think this is for…”, “Dad can we stop for donuts?” Darn, that kid is a mind-reader.
It occurred to me then that your child’s esteem is yours by birthright. As such, it’s also yours to lose. But it can’t be lost when you stop to ask for directions, firmly send him to bed, or walk away from a fight.
It’s certainly true with my view of my own Dad. No Harrison Ford, he nonetheless earned his Get-Admiration-Free card the moment I was born, and to this day continues to offer me the shirt off his own back. (The shirt is about three seasons old and musty-smelling, so I passed.) The only time I began to seriously question my admiration for Dad was when he started listening to country music. Fortunately, we never taught him how to program preset stations on the radio.
The fighting men in the park eventually went their separate ways without coming to blows. The dogs even looked disappointed. But the Dad who felt his reputation was on the line in front of his kids really had nothing to worry about. Maybe he realized this the next time Father’s Day rolled around as he opened his pop-up cards, unwrapped his necktie, and ate his golf course-shaped ice cream cake. Maybe not. But the primary lesson of Father’s Day is clear: Just steer your kids toward happiness, and they will almost always look up to you in return. Father’s and every day.
And if that fails, there’s always Ringpops.
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