Dad Fail, Vol. 2
Lessons learned from the dark side of toddlerhood.
Missed the first “Dad Fail?” Read it here.
I’ve entered the “Play with me!” phase. The kids are too smart for their own good, not easily distracted anymore by a pillow zipper or a piece of lint under the coach. No, they want mental stimulation, a partner in the land of make-believe, an actual coherent human. And they want it constantly. Ugh. Frankly, it’s hard to find that energy every day. Maybe when I was 20, but I was also sleeping until 11:30 a.m. and had the social skills of a houseplant. Plus, they think I’m good at stuff just because I’m an adult. I can’t squeeze into the Elsa outfit. My Play-doh picnic looks like an array of colorful turds. And I’ve broken two crayons and three colored pencils while trying to stay in the lines on a Bluey coloring sheet. The level of disgust that’s in their face is humbling. “Dad, just stop. You can go now.” I’m officially old.
We lost our older dog in early 2022. Sammi was the OG, a cuckoo Maltipoo my wife rescued years earlier in college that became my best friend on four paws. And though he was a grumpy old man by the time my kids were born, we all shared awesome memories. (Sammi would sit near their crib minutes before they cried with some kind of weird doggy ESP.) He passed peacefully in our home on a Monday while the kids were in school. I took it the hardest of any one, but my girls had a more enlightened outlook. We’re not necessarily a spiritual family, but the kids just knew Sammi was in heaven. But heaven, to them, wasn’t really an afterlife or ethereal concept—it was a an actual region or place across the country, like Iowa. We would go the store and one of them would just blurt out, “Our dog isn’t here anymore. He’s in heaven.” They still talk about it all the time, often asking if I’m going to visit Sammi soon. Very sweet, but I'm waiting a while, thank you. A long while.
My name is Ryan and I’m addicted to sneakers. I’ve had an obsession over the newest, coolest and craziest shoes since I was in middle school, but the addiction started in earnest during my early adulthood when I had an actual job. From Jordan and Yeezy to Nike and New Balance (yes, NB is now a hot commodity in the fashion world! Father’s everywhere, rejoice!), I’m a sneakerhead with more kicks than my wife and children combined. Of course, I’ve passed the virus along to my family who are now too cool for school to be seen in the Marshalls shoe aisle. (I see it differently. The department store is where I cut my teeth and learned the craft, searching for a hidden gem with a small scuff or imperfection.) So needless to say, my excitement was next level when a box arrived at our door containing a fresh pair of cherry red Air Jordan 1 Highs and off-pink Air Max 90s for my 5-year-old daughter Saoirse. Her eyes lit up when she unboxed the precious gems, immediately offering a huge daddy hug and this gem of a note (above), courtesy of the complimentary Jumpman sticker inside the package. My cool dad vibes were short-lived, however, as my other daughter burst into tears and ran upstairs screaming, “I never get anything! You don’t love me!” Well, you win some and you lose some.
My 3-year-old was “helping” me fold (throw, lick, hide) laundry, and we both experienced an life-altering epiphany. For some unknown reason, I started explaining how to fold socks. (Yes, I use the ‘ball up’ method. I understand it has the potential to overstretch the ankle elastic, but I’ll take that life risk. It’s easy and mindless and forms a perfect projectile to toss in the drawer. Apparently, there’s also the ‘konmari’ method perfected by—who else—Marie Kondo. Far too intense for me, man.) And I told her it was important to always keep the socks together. They’re only whole with their counterpart. But if they were to separate, both would die. “Oh, that’s so sad,” she said, heartbroken. We both grew quiet, and I knew then that I would always do everything I could to unite sock mates. Maybe she’ll do the same. Perhaps that’s a dad win after all.