Our middle has found a word to drop into heavy rotation. That word is ‘butthead.’
I have been blessed with you three boys. If I have a mission statement as a parent, it’s this: raise good people. Maybe it’s apologetic or too politically-correct by half to say that. Why wouldn’t I want to raise good men?
Jack, our oldest, graduated pre-school last week. There was a ceremony because this, apparently, is what happens now.
I have no problem with strong women. I married one. But as a father of three boys, I have plenty of problems with Sheryl Sandberg and the way she thinks we should go about turning young girls into leaders.
Most of the time, my head gets in the way of my heart. I worry over work and saving money for your college and delivering something on deadline. This is called maturity. It’s easy to blame work or responsibilities for the muting of the adult heart.
I had written the first sentence of the story as a prompt. Then asked nine other people from this room of mostly strangers to write successive sentences. Their goal: a story I could read to my kids at bedtime.
Adults lose touch with their imaginations as they get older. But parents? Ours go into overdrive in the worst possible way.
There’s a prevailing feeling that when Dads appear in commercials, they are portrayed as either incompetent to the point of ridiculousness (“Honey, what hole does the food go into?”) or completely absent from the lives of their children. The question is, does it matter?