Who's your daddy?

Parenthood is an odd occupation. It's surprising how few people remain their normal sane selves after they have children.

With mothers it's somewhat understandable. Having a three month hangover followed by your hips partially dislocating and then pushing a bowling ball out ANY orifice will have permanent psychological effects.

For fathers watching that happen leaves it's own marks, like the permanent imprint of her fingernails in your forearm while you listen to her frighten the anesthesiologist with her impression of 'Dr. Claw having a fit of Tourettes'.

One way I've noticed I'm 'different' in a 'special' way after having kids is wanting them to know who I am. This goes deeper than 'who's your daddy', although reminding them that I happen to be better than them in everything is nice too. Just because they are small doesn't mean they don't want to school me in any contest, like the 'My little pony' board game.

I think we want our children to really know us partly for validation and partly for legacy. I hope that I have more to offer my children than 50% of their chromosomal odds and the opportunity to observe how not to do things first hand. I want my company to be a positive influence on their life, that I can be a hero, and not just a vaudevillian clown.

I want them to understand me, to know what motivates my decisions. Surprisingly I also want them to respect me, which is pretty much mutually exclusive. You don't realize how boneheaded a lot of your choices are until you try to explain them to a 5 year old.

Her: Why can't I have the pudding, Mommy said I could.
Me: Because I don't like talking to your mother about parenting.
Her: Why?
Me: Because I feel stupid when I do.

Her: Daddy, why did you say you were going to do the dishes, and then didn't.
Me: Honey, Daddy is tired.
Her: Why?
Me: Sitting at my desk all day sucked the life out of me. And I wanted to make your mother stop whining about you two. Promising things to people has that affect.

And I realize that now that my older daughter has me figured. Recently she looked fondly at me and said:

Her: Daddy, do you know what we should do for your birthday dinner?
Me: [thought bubble]Go stay at your grandparents for half an hour while Mommy and I have 'fancy time'? [/thought bubble] No honey, what?
Her: We should serve you only meat. And Beer.

For eight years old she's surprisingly clever. Still I reminded her she had forgotten dessert. Children are unbearable if they think they are right.