Confession time. It’s going to be good.
I hate my yard. I hate mowing it, weeding it, and even (please forgive me) edging it. You know that satisfaction you get when that grass next to the sidewalk is so crisp you could cut a steak on it? I feel nothing when I look at that.
Wow. It’s grass. Fantastic.
The dad in me judges hard. I’m supposed to enjoy stuff like this. It’s supposed to give me a sense of purpose and a greater sense of community.
Lies. All lies. I see other dads out there toiling away like its mediation for them. It’s supposed to bring some sort of stress release. That zen.
But you know what, I’m not a farmer. And I know farmers. Real farmers never look stress-free. Those guys are one drought away from a heart attack.
So there it is, I hate doing yard work and my yard. But hold up, there’s more. There’s plenty about being a dad that I don’t like.
I could go the rest of my life without ever talking about water heaters again. I once spent an entire hour discussing quality water heaters with other dads. And they were totally into it. A bunch of guys nodding along when someone laid down some stupid water heater knowledge. I know about water heaters and my life is lesser for it. I also know about drum belts for dryers, motors for garage door openers, and the inner workings of a 1985 vacuum cleaner. This knowledge has not improved my life.
Which brings us to those great DIY projects that we all must do. It saves money when you do them yourself, and good quality craftsmanship blah, blah, blah. You know what, I don’t want to build my own deck. And I don’t want to install ceiling fans. I get these chores, almost as if they are a favor, from my family.
“Hey honey,” my wife will say. “How about installing a new shower?” And then she will smile as if I’m getting free time. “I’ll keep the kids out of your hair.”
Pshht. How about a nice day at the spa? Maybe I would like that better than demo work. And then this starts getting around to other randos until a lady in the grocery store parking lot is telling me that when I need a break from my family, I could come over and install her sprinkler system. Awesome, now I get to add that knowledge to my water heater knowledge.
I don’t care about opening day baseball. It’s ok if you send me hate mail on this one.
A couple of weekends ago I was at a cookout and all of us dads stood around a grill watching meat. Yup, meat watching. It’s the national pastime for dads. It’s right up there with opening day baseball.
We grunted a lot, made approving noises as one stuck the thermometer into a juicy part. I want to make this clear, I love eating the meat. I love tasting the meat. I have no desire to sit around and watch the meat cook. I don’t care about the special blended spice that you got from the guy on the street corner in Finland. There is no reason for me to compliment your meat.
Please stop talking to me about craft beer. I know what I like, and a “hint of rosemary” isn’t it.
I have fifteen different kinds of sanders in my garage. Ones for a corner, one for big surfaces, an oscillating thing. I could get by with only two. Somedays, dads will randomly come by and ask me about my sander collection and so I’ll bring them all out. I’ll get some nods, then they’ll say, “Well, that’s nice and all but you don’t have the orbit deluxe model 238. Hmm, that’s a fine sander. One day you’ll know.” I’m done buying sanders.
“Watching your children work will bring you a sense of accomplishment and pride!” No, it doesn’t. I enjoy spending time with my kids. I enjoy teaching them. I have no desire to hang out over their shoulder while they mow. The only joy I get out of it is that they hate it as much as I do, so at least I’m not alone in my dad shame.
And there it is, the things that all dads are supposed to be into that I just can’t. It’s how we judge each other, and it’s how the world sees us. But you know what, maybe I’m not that guy. I’m going to get drummed out of the community, of that I have no doubt. Clutch your pearls, fellas, I’ll be over here drinking my mojito and having a dance party with the kids.
I do love my dad sweater, though. That’s universal.
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