Tor Constantino thinks good dads should be more like pigs than chickens.
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Being called a “Pig” or “Chicken” might constitute fightin’ words for most men, since neither term is a particularly endearing moniker for manliness or fatherhood.
Normally, each word is viewed negatively, but a recent conversation with one of my daughters changed my thinking on both terms — especially regarding parenting.
Being called a “Pig” or “Chicken” might usually constitute fightin’ words for most men since neither term is a particularly endearing moniker for manliness or fatherhood.
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One of the things we love to do as a family on the weekends is go out for breakfast to a home-style diner.
You know the type I’m talking about—vinyl upholstered booths, water-spotted flatware, laminated encyclopedic menu where all the servers are kids of the second-generation immigrant owner.
My wife usually gets a croissant-sandwich-something-or-other; our oldest daughter gets two eggs over easy with bacon; the younger daughter orders chocolate chip pancakes; the boy—age two—gets scrambled eggs or oatmeal, while I order a veggie egg white omelette with a side of hot sauce.
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During the past 13 years as parents, my wife and I have adopted a strategy of taking turns feeding the respective high chair dweller—if she feeds the baby during dinner at California Pizza Kitchen, I’ll feed the child at the next available restaurant visit.
If you have never been on toddler-feeding duty at a restaurant it entails an intricate system of rituals
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If you have never been on toddler-feeding duty at a restaurant, it entails an intricate system of rituals including: preemptively asking for extra napkins as soon as you sit down; wiping down the high chair; applying an adhesive placemat to the table; giving the toddler enough Cheerios to eat while waiting for the food; moving all knives, sugar packets, hot and cold beverages to the center of the table; leaving a 25 percent tip to help in the disaster relief cleanup efforts from the resultant toddler foodnado … etc.
Additionally, it means that one of us usually ends up eating our meal cold—sneaking a bite of Sriracha-drenched eggs or swig of coffee in between cutting, feeding, wiping, cleaning, and a host of other action verbs.
Despite those individual inconveniences, my wife and I still believe these gastronomic getaways are important to keep our clan close.
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A few weekends ago, we went to our favorite early-morning eatery where some surprising insights occurred surrounding my oldest daughter’s breakfast.
After the server delivered the meals, I freaked out a bit to my family about how hot the toddler’s oatmeal was as I burned my fingers trying to navigate the kiln-hot bowl out of the boy’s reach.
I stirred ice cubes from my water into his breakfast mush to help cool its temperature to a more reasonable “molten lava” heat index as opposed to its original temperature of “hell” when it was served.
The chicken only helped make my breakfast with its two eggs, but the pig was totally committed—all in.
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Our oldest leaned over as I sucked my scorched finger tips, and she chuckled to me, “Well at least you’re the chicken not the pig.”
“Huh?” I puzzled.
Pointing at her two eggs over easy and extra side of bacon she said, “The chicken only helped make my breakfast with its two eggs, but the pig was totally committed—all in. You only helped stir his breakfast—you didn’t lose a hand or anything,” as she heartily bit down on a piece of crispy pork belly.
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That type of exchange counts as humor to a preteen. Since she’s a voracious reader (and voracious eater of all things bacon) I didn’t bother to ask where she gleaned that particular chicken-pig insight, but it struck a chord.
Am I merely contributing to the raising of my kids a la the chicken metaphor, or am I completely committed to them with every aspect of my existence?
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I had heard that same metaphor at some motivational speaker event some years ago relating to project management and how you had to be fully committed rather than just a contributor. But at that moment in the restaurant it kind of hit me in the face as to whether I was a “chicken” or “pig” when it came to parenting.
Am I merely contributing to the raising of my kids a la the chicken metaphor, or am I completely committed to them with every aspect of my existence?
It’s a serious question. It’s a tough question.
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I want to believe that I’m more like the “committed pig” rather than a “contributing chicken” but I know that I’m quite selfish and self-absorbed—like most people.
I don’t know about you, but after a draining day at work, I’m more inclined to want to recline in an easy chair (chickenish?!?) than do the hard things and play outside with the kids, volunteer to do the dishes after dinner, help each of them with their homework or any number of other positively-porkish behaviors.
While I know this is overly simplistic and that my wife and kids love me—and I love them—the truth is that I tend to default to the “chicken” model of parenting more frequently than the “pig” example.
Try as I might to want to put lipstick on this pig, I can’t, and I’m chicken to admit that truth.
Question: Are you more of a chicken or a pig when it comes to parenting?
—Photo Rikki’sRefuge/Flickr
George, I completely agree with you that fatigue is the primary cause of my chickenish behavior. It’s tough to give your full attention, love and engagement when your energy tank is empty. Thanks for commenting.
Personally I am aiming to be a pig!!!
However, work can get in the way, so can simply being tired.
Chicken or Pig?
How about, reforming chicken on a journey to being a full fledged pig. 🙂
Genius! I like how you think Rick – thanks for taking the time to read and comment here!