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?
At this point, we can all agree that parenting is different than it was a generation or two ago. As much as we chuckle at the aloof horribleness of Don Draper as a father, surely things couldn’t have been THAT bad, were they?
Let’s take a pair of beloved children’s books and find out.
So, there I am, in a bar with my wife, a few drinks into a night filled with dancing and drink and the music that I listened to on my Walkman. It was the closest thing my wife will ever come to having a date with my younger self.
We can’t get enough of Jesse Pinkman. He’s jumpy. Aggravated. In constant need of stimulants.
That doesn’t sound like any parents I know.