A father's job is unique.
If parents had job descriptions, mine would read: organize bills, playmates,
laundry, meals, laundry, carpool, laundry, snacks, outings and shopping, and
laundry.
The only thing on my husband's description would be the word "fun" written in
big red letters along the top. Although he is a selfless caregiver and provider,
our children think of him more as a combination of a jungle gym and bozo and
clown.
Our parenting styles compliment each other. His style is a nonstop adventure
where no one has to worry about washing their hands, eating vegetables, or
getting cavities. My style is similar to Mussolini. I'm too busy worrying to be
fun. Besides, every time I try, I am constantly outdone by my husband.
I bought my children bubble gum flavored toothpaste and I taught them how to
brush their teeth in tiny circles so they wouldn't get cavities. They thought it
was neat until my husband taught them how to rinse by spitting out water between
their two front teeth like a fountain.
I took the children on a walk in the woods and, after two hours, I managed to
corral a slow ladybug into my son's insect cage. I was "cool" until their father
came home, spent two minutes in the backyard, and captured a beetle the size of
a Chihuahua.
I try to tell myself I am a good parent even if my husband does things I
can't do. I can make sure my children are safe, warm, and dry. I'll stand in
line for five hours so the children can see Santa at the mall or be first in
line to see the latest Disney movie. But I can't wire the VCR so my children can
watch their favorite video.
I can carry my children in my arms when they are tired, tuck them into bed,
and kiss them goodnight. But I can't flip them upside down so they can walk on
the ceiling or prop them on my shoulders so they can see the moths flying inside
of the light fixture.
I can take them to doctor appointments, scout meetings, or field trips to the
aquarium, but I'll never go into the wilderness, skewer a worm on a hook, reel
in a fish, and cook it over an open flame on a piece of tin foil.
I'll even sit in the first row of every Little League game and cheer until my
throat is sore and my tonsils are raw, but I'll never teach my son how to hit a
home run or slide into first base.
As a mother I can do a lot of things for my children, but no matter how hard
I try--I can never be their father.
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