Big Daddy Paul

There are parents out there that are out of control. You know the kind of parent I am talking about, eager to brag about every little thing their kid can do, even then you both know that the child is a complete mess. If their kid was ripping the head off baby seals and lighting them on fire, they would proudly note, “Did you see how well Jimmy worked the lighter? He gets that from his daddy.” I don’t mind an occasional story about new things that the kids are up to; most of the time new developments are interesting to hear about. But some parents just take it too far.

My kid knows how to stare off into space!

I feel myself joining them. Malcolm seems to be doing new and cool things every week, and I have no idea how much to share with fellow parents. Mind you, I have taken a lot of shit over the years for Malcolm’s less-than-stellar attributes, enduring nasty comments from moms when my child bites theirs, relentless heckling from my stay at home dads group about Malcolm being a slow witted bruiser, and comments from teachers like, “Weeeeellll, he’s very [pause] energetic,” as they stall to think up something nice about him. Now, he is catching up on the curve and I am not sure what sort of publicity to hand out about that.

Most of the time, I try and keep it all bottled up. While others droning on about their kid doing this and that, I try to remain quiet, not really knowing what to say. Then, sometimes quite unexpectedly, the bottle gets shaken up and explodes all over the place, usually to a person that could care less, such as when the deli counter lady at our grocery store asked how my son was.  ”My kid knows how to ride a camel! He can spell the word, ‘diplodocus!’ He’s already masturbating at a fourth grade level! Yesterday, he made veal saltimbocca, WITH IMPORTED PROSCIUTTO!!!!”

I realize when I start doing this, I have become the very thing I detest. To tell you the truth, it was much easier to sheepishly look away when people start talking about their kids, embarrassed of my little drooling biter seemingly always trying to lure the other kids around into a conversation about their butts. Excess pride in your kid is way uglier than your child being a baby seal killer. Now that I finally have some stuff to brag about, I am gonna have to learn to walk the line. Even so, he knew not to use crappy domestic prosciutto. I mean really.

I used to be prepared. I had a backpack full of diapers, wipes, snacks, small toys and a buck knife sharp enough to gut a camel. Sure, I forgot the backpack about half of the time, but back then I was at least occasionally prepared for life in the world as a parent.

Once Malcolm joined the world of the potty trained, though, the backpack took its rightful place in the corner, next to the Elmo DVD’s and my once wicked cool pair of ’90’s era MC Hammer parachute pants. I gladly reveled in the fact that Malcolm no longer needed extra disposable underpants with us, and took it to mean that also didn’t need any food, drink or emergency entertainment. (I still keep the buck knife strapped to my leg, just in case I run into a rabid camel awkwardly galloping through the streets of Oakland. You never know.)

I have recently been surprised to learn that other parents still do some preparation before leaving the house with their kids. Shocking, to say the least. I have been on play dates with these seemingly obsessive/compulsive parents, who still bring snacks for their kids, and, even worse, things for their kids to drink. When Malcolm and I are in the world, it’s like Ramadan. He gets nothing to snack on and can occasionally have some water if we are able to locate a drinking fountain that isn’t completely disgusting (a rarity in Oakland.)

When confronted with the reality of these other parents caring for their children, Malcolm and I look longingly at the fruits of their preparation, like the Amish teens who stare jealously at all the zippers on my parachute pants. Malcolm has recently begun asking the parents if they have brought him any snacks, causing the other adult to sneer at me and silently question, “Why am I the bad guy here? You’re the one who doesn’t look after your child!” For a while, I would plead ignorance, like I had no idea that I was supposed to bring supplies with us. Once you go on a few play dates though, that excuse doesn’t hold water anymore. Malcolm’s friends must either bring him an extra treat or endure the unwelcome humiliation of asking their kid to share a snack with Malcolm. (I wouldn’t share a tasty granola bar, but I sure don’t mind looking scornfully at another kid who declares that he won’t share with Malcolm!)

I know that I should just stick an emergency box of snacks in the car, but that requires preparation, a talent that I am severely lacking. I feel a certain sense of entitlement since Malcolm doesn’t wear diapers and I don’t need to bring a diaper bag with us, and I am going to hold fast to it. Sure, other parents must be annoyed by me, but I am fairly certain that they are going to be annoyed with me anyways, so why not pile on while I can. I’ll be the one laughing, though, when I save everyone by the marauding camels. Then who’ll seem prepared…

My first theory of parenting was that all children are evil and must be broken as quickly as possible. This was based on my empirical study of one child in which I noticed that every decision he made was designed to either a) do the thing that I just told him not to do, or b) say something that he knows will make me angry. At one point I was sure that if he found a fork lying on the floor of the kitchen, he would immediately grab it and stick it in my leg. I lived in a perpetual state of fear and I was actually incredulous about a child’s decision-making; I wondered why it was that my child was so wicked. Surely, I have a mischievous side to me, but certainly it wasn’t so bad that my child would end up as the spawn of Satan, would it?

Then I realized the thing that has allowed me to love my son again. He isn’t evil. He is testing me. Kids know right from wrong, they just want to see how we are going to respond. Like a velociraptor running into the electric fence to see if it has any weaknesses, Malcolm tests my

I'm from Jurassic Park!

mettle by misbehaving. Most of the time when his acts up he looks right at me, as if to tell me with his eyes, “Look what I’m about to do!” That sets up a game of chicken, with both he and I wondering whether the other will blink first. (This isn’t one of those harmless games of gay chicken you play in college either, where you end up making out with a buddy of yours just to prove how not-gay you are.)

This game of chicken is serious. Parents who give in first are doomed to micromanage their kid’s lives and the result is a kid who turns out like George W Bush. I don’t want to be the high strung parent who is always haranguing their kid. Most of the time, I dispassionately dispense the penalty for whatever transgression has been committed, and then tell him about the bad decision he has made. When he looks at me when grabbing that proverbial fork, I either look away or shrug meekly like, “Who needs a puncture-free leg, anyways?” In short, I let him totally make out with me. It has helped me to relax, and know that he is testing limits and not plotting how it is he is going to destroy the world. At least, that’s my hope anyways…