Five going on fifteen.

39 pounds of sass.

“I love mommy more than you. I was in her belly, not yours. She’s special. You’re not.”

Days before her fifth birthday, my oldest daughter Saoirse wasn’t having it. My wife and I normally switch off on putting Saoirse and my other daughter Ella down to bed. Each has their own routine, stall tactics and tantrum triggers. Bedtime is a time bomb, requiring a deft hand, careful balance and charged iPad.

I walked into Saoirse’s room with the checklist in mind. Brush the teeth, wrangle the diaper and pull on the pajamas. We’ve done it 732 times before, yet it seems like we have to reinvent the process every night. But before we could even begin, my daughter’s eyes met mine, and I was terrified. “I don’t want you,” she scowled. “Too bad. Let’s get this done and go to sleep, damn it,” I said in my mind. “Oh, why not?,” I coyly questioned out loud.

She went on to tell me all the reasons I wasn’t mom, wasn’t good enough and wasn’t worth my weight in Veggie Straws. Despite many attempts at playfulness, affection and bribery, my attempts were futile. Mom eventually saved me, much to the happiness of Saoirse. “I got my way—again,” her body language screamed as she pointed to the door to show my exit.

I slinked away a beaten man. Even my 8-year-old Goldendoodle Charlie couldn’t stand the sight of me as he hurried downstairs in preparation for his kibble dinner. Wasn’t it yesterday that she was crawling into my arms, excitedly laughing as if I was the only other person in the world? Now she’s throwing down Shakespearean insults that would make Disney villains blush. I understand I’ll never be mom, but I always thought I had a firm grasp of the second position, always holding my spot on the iPhone favorites contact list. Right now, it definitely didn’t feel like it. And it certainly didn’t vibe with the cool dad persona I always pictured in my mind.

After a few minutes and a few sips of a cold IPA, I realized this was the ebb and flow of dad-ing. Hot and cold, feast or famine, home run or strikeout. And especially with two girl toddlers, this was only the beginning. There will be better days. Harsher words. And more alcohol. One thing that might help is sharing my story, one experience at a time.

Even if I’m an uncool dad.