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I thought I could be perfect. Do lots of good things and hardly any bad things.
I thought I could be both my dad and my mom. Teach my kids to play ball and cook them breakfast before we went outside.
I thought I could be old-fashioned and modern. Get my kids to say “please” and “thank you” and inspire with praise rather than crushing with criticism. Be the rock of the family and change diapers.
I thought I could find extra energy somewhere. Sing my son back to sleep every hour of the night and go teach an English class the next day.
But when my son was about seven months old, I hit the wall.
Or, more precisely, I hit the table. We were eating in a Chinese-dumpling shop, and I had gone first to order. Reading the menu in my second language, I ordered boiled instead of fried, and when the food came, I turned a not-even-mistake into a cataclysm.
The plastic, postcard-sized menu clipboard was close at hand. I seized it and slammed it back down. Did other diners notice? I have no idea. All I saw was the shock, worry and disappointment on my wife’s face, and I knew that something had to change.
I needed to sleep more and parent less. I needed to breathe more and talk less.
That was 10 years ago. I still get angry, worrying my wife and frightening my children. I still haven’t learned. But I’m still here. Imperfect, yes. A failure? No way.
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