“No, Dad!” she says with every bit of condemnation that a twelve-year-old can. “No! No! No!” Her hand grabs the radio dial and turns the music off. “You can’t play your music here!”
“What? My music is cool. I’m cool.”
Vivi doesn’t even waste a breath on an answer. The look she gives me, complete with a long sigh and an eye roll, is overdramatic. At least, to me. But then again, I’m a forty-three-year-old man that listens to Metallica and Pantera. The kind of music that deserves to be played loud. Anything short of that is an insult to the hard rock genre.
Besides, who’s really going to hear it? We are ten cars deep in the school drop off lane. I’m surrounded by minivans and SUVs. The car behind me has a mom that is putting on her makeup in the rearview mirror. The green van in front hasn’t moved in three minutes. I say we need some loud music to get our blood going this morning, wake these people up.
“Hey,” I say, “I’m still cool. I’m very cool. See those kids getting out of the cars at the front of the line, they wish I was their dad. That’s how cool I am.”
“You’re embarrassing,” Vivi says.
“Oh. Ouch.”
And there it is, the words that can’t be taken back. They are going to hang between us everytime I pick her up or drop her off for something. Those words are going to be a coat wrapped around us. My daughter doesn’t get this moment, what it really means. All she thinks is that her dad is embarrassing. But she doesn’t know that this is a monumental shift in our relationship.
Everyone goes through the point where they are embarrassed by their parents. It’s going to last for a while until she sees me as once again as awesome. If I remember correctly, when I went through this, it was after my first year of college.
But for now, that’s not how she sees me. Every single day, until today, she has seen me as her awesome dad. She laughed at my jokes. When we cranked the music, she would headbang with me and then laugher would fill our van. Now, at 7:35 a.m., that’s no longer allowed. That’s the exact moment that I became an embarrassment.
We sit in silence for a bit, move two car lengths up, and then stop because some people don’t know how the drop off lane works. It’s not that difficult. I roll down our windows.
“No!” she says before it’s even halfway down. She pushes her window button up. I push mine down. The window stops, leaving a gap.
“I’m hot,” I tell her. “It’s a nice day out.”
“No, it’s not. It’s almost raining. You want to roll the windows down and blast your music.”
“Ouch, honey. I mean, really ouch.”
It hurts on many levels. First off, when did this become my music? It used to be OUR music. Second, how dare she accuse me of doing exactly what I was going to do.
“Dad,” she says.
“Honey,” I reply. The window is our stalemate, neither of our fingers moving.
“Promise me,” she says.
“What?”
“That you won’t try to embarrass me.”
I can’t make that promise. Because here is the next thing that I know. It is now my job to be embarrassing. I’ve been labeled; it has become part of my identity. I’m the embarrassing father, the train wreck that is going to eventually mow his yard while wearing tights-whiteys. This behavior is expected.
And there is a reason for it. People that are concerned about being embarrassed, of side-eye glances, of public judgment, will often hold themselves back. They won’t go for it, content to sit in an embarrassing father’s basement. They will be afraid of the world. It is now my job to show her that being the spectacle isn’t a big deal. That what other people think of you really isn’t that important.
Our whole dynamic has shifted. Instead of being on the same team, doing those things that are fun and silly, we are now at odds. I have become the parental figure and she has become the girl that I’m trying to keep from growing up to fast. I didn’t think you could mark it down to a specific time, that perhaps it would be gradual. But apparently, you can. There’s a certain sadness to this, and if I’m being honest, I’m going to miss the way were. That little girl whose greatest joy was riding on my shoulders.
I let go of the window button and we sit in awkward silence. I make an attempt at small talk and get grunts in return. I ask her if there any boys that she likes. She looks out the window instead of answering.
“Isn’t that one of your friends getting out of the car in front of us?”
Vivi becomes rigid, her back straightens and she has a hiccup in her breath.
“No.”
Well, thank god my daughter is an awful liar. Maybe I am doing something right.
We arrive at the front of the line and she jumps out.
“I love you!” I yell as loud as I can.
She slams the van door and hustles away. Her backpack bounces. She slides in behind her friend that was not her friend a minute ago. There’s part of me here that wants to roll down the window and tell her that I’m going to spend a good hour in the bathroom pooping. Instead, I just a quick two beeps of the horn. This is the way it’s going to be for the next six or seven years.
I make it home in time to get my two other kids ready for school. The five-year-old asks if I can eat lunch with him today so that I can meet all his new friends.
“Sure, no problem. How about you, Wyatt?” I ask my ten-year-old boy, the fifth grader.
“No way, you’re embarrassing.”
Well, crap.
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Photo Credit: Pixabay