It’s no secret that moms and dads do child rearing differently. There can be such a huge contrast between our styles, everything from communication, to discipline choices, to comforting tactics. Kids know this too, and the little devils figure it out so quickly and just play us because we’re weak, dumb, and too tired to care sometimes. I know this from my own experience with my parents and also observing Jamie for the past ten years. And yet, as I watch some dads in action, I still find myself cocking my head to the side and thinking, “Is this really happening?”
My parents were very different; mom was more comforting and easier to approach and Dad was often very scary and strict. He had these transition lenses that I swear would turn red whenever he was angry. I remember my mom would bathe us when we were little; she had a gentle touch and would entertain us with cautionary tales about the kids who turned into goats because they didn’t bathe on a regular basis. I even remember her giving me a little speech therapy to help me pronounce my L’s and R’s during bath time, like a true woman multitasking. But some days she was too tired from working all day and cooking dinner afterwards, so she’d have my dad bathe us. Those were the absolute worst. We laugh about it now as adults, but as kids whenever we’d hear my mom tell my dad in Tagalog to bathe us, my brother and I would almost instantly start crying. There was no story time with dad baths, no gentle touch, just near drownings as we’d watch his lenses transition to red. First he’d get us in the tub and take a “tabo” (a bucket of sorts that you can find in any Filipino bathroom…sometimes it looks like the little bucket they send you home with from the hospital after you had a baby, sometimes it looks like a recycled tub of yogurt or a take out soup container) and dump masses of water over us in a fast and furious way without warning, so that we’d have a bunch of water up our noses. Then he’d take our arms and rub them raw to show us how much dirt we had on our bodies. We’d see brown flecks shedding off our arms, which at the time he said was dirt, but now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure it was the five layers of my epidermis that he had rubbed off. Then he’d soap us with a wash cloth so hard that I was convinced he was taking all the brown pigment off my skin. He would use a bar of soap to clean our hair, and I’d tell him that Mom uses shampoo for our hair, which seemed to piss him off and make him use more soap on my hair. Then the worst part: he’d soap our faces and warn us not to open our eyes, then cover our faces and use the tabo to dump water over our heads. Sounds like a logical way to rinse us off, right? Nope. What ended up happening was that his hand would actually trap all the soapy water by our faces and create a puddle of water right around our noses and mouths, so it felt like we were drowning in our own soapy filth. So then we’d flail around in a panic, and he’d get super angry because he was wet and we were crying. It felt like the longest and most tortuous five minutes of my childhood, as if this was an acceptable form of parent waterboarding. We’d come out of the bath with dermis exposed, shivering and terrified, with my dad standing by us looking at my mom with an ever so slight grin like, “Look, I did it! Praise me!” Did it suck…hell yes, for all parties involved. BUT, he bathed us just as my mom requested. It was a different style than my mom, but it was done, and that’s all that mattered in the end. And bonus, you better believe I learned at a very young age how to shower myself. Parent win for them, permanent scarring for me.
That is just one of a million examples of how my parents did things differently. So I should not be surprised when I see Jamie doing things in his own way too. But it’s natural and easy for me to think (and often say) that my way is the right way, so do it my way, dumbass. Rather than having that same argument over and over, I’ve just learned to sit back and watch him do his thing.
When Evan was five months old and Reese was three years old, Jamie sent me on my first weekend getaway with my girlfriends and said he would take care of everything. I was terrified because he had never been alone with both kids. In between spa treatments I would call and check in on them. I’d ask things like how much did the baby take from the bottle or how were the kids’ naps, and he’d say something like, “I don’t know, Mom and Megan came over and are helping.” Then I’d hear one of them answer all my questions for him. So the women were taking care of the kids while Jamie was doing Jamie things (I don’t even know what that means). Eventually at some point during the weekend he was left alone with the kids and was handling everything beautifully (I think, since they’re still alive today). When Sunday came around and I was heading home, he told me he was taking the kids to the park and he’d get home right around the time I got home. Sure enough, forty minutes before I pulled into the driveway, he sends me a picture of Reese with a fat lip, cut up nose, and scrapes all over her face after a fall on the concrete on the way home from the park. He was so close! He said, “Ugh, if you just came home a little earlier, I would have had a perfect record for the weekend with no casualties!” But even though my kid looked like she just got into a bar fight, both kids were alive and happy, so overall it was a dad win.
I don’t think Jamie was alone with them again until I went back to work, and by then, Evan was one and Reese was four. Just to give you an idea of what things typically looked like on weekdays when Jamie would come home from work, both kids would be fed or in the middle of dinner and a home cooked meal was waiting for Jamie. The house wouldn’t always be clean, but it was relatively tidy. When I worked on the weekends and would come home, it looked like a little tornado ran through our home. The tv would be blasting but I wouldn’t see anyone. Then one by one, I’d see little heads pop up from the top of the couch like two whack-a-moles and hear, “Hi Mommy!” No sign of Jamie. I’d ask where Daddy was, and they’d point downward on the couch, and there he was passed out. Then he’d wake up looking all Steve Urkel like, “Did I do that?” Then he’d ask me what I wanted to do for dinner. In my head I’m thinking, “I’d like to punch you in the face for dinner,” but my mouth would say, “Let’s just order food or eat left overs.” But again, the kids were alive and did not sustain any major injuries, so I suppose it was a dad win.
I thought that maybe Jamie was just in survival mode because the kids were so young, so I gave him grace since he doesn’t typically take care of them on his own and he was already tired from a busy work week. But no. The kids are now seven and ten and it still looks nuts when he’s flying solo. And I know it’s not just him. As an example, this past spring break we spent a long weekend with my brother’s family and close family friends. The ladies went out one night for a wine tasting, and the guys went out to a bar the following night to watch some March Madness games. When the ladies went out, we were gone for about two to three hours. When we got back to the house, it was eerily quiet, all seven kids were playing on their own in the basement, the dogs were in their crates or napping, and the guys were playing a board game, drinking and watching basketball. Within two minutes of our arrival, the kids smelled our presence and all came racing upstairs to ask us a ton of questions and told us they were starving, the dogs began barking, the house was madness, and then the guys asked us what the plan was for dinner. Buzz kill for sure. The following day was their turn to go out. While they were out, the ladies were actually interacting with the kids, making homemade pretzels with them, feeding the kids dinner, taking the dogs for walks, and starting dinner for the adults. There was no sitting around watching basketball or playing board games. And then here come the guys jovially strolling into the house five to six hours later, nice and tipsy, with dumb looks on their faces like, “Don’t be mad, we brought home cake.” No kids came running up to bombard them with requests, and I think fifteen minutes had past before any of the kids actually noticed they were back. Very different experiences. They were lucky they brought home cake.
Perhaps it was like that because we were on vacation. I get it, looser rules for everyone, we all just wanted to relax and have fun. Totally fine. But still no. Just two weeks after spring break, I played in an all day volleyball tournament and Jamie was once again in charge of the kids. Baseball and soccer games hadn’t started yet, so he had a free day with the kids. I knew my brother-in-law and nephews were going to hang out there at some point, so I made sure to clean the house since we hadn’t had company over in a year. I didn’t hear from him most of the day, and I figured there were two adults there, so no news was good news. When I got home, the house was a disaster, the dog was crazy, the kids were in the basement, and the Moscow Mules were flowing. The kids sensed my mother smell and all came up to see me. They were fed and happy, so I was overall super pleased. I thought this was fantastic, Jamie did a great job and I’m actually going to be able to kick my feet up. I went over to the couch and said, “Ummm…there is dog shit on the couch!” Jamie, sipping his drink, said, “Hmm, what’s dog shit doing over there?” I don’t know, asshole, I was gone all day! So then I started walking all over the house and found a small trail of dog shit and pointed out all the spots to him. He giggled and said, “Hmm, maybe because I fed her a ton of treats while you were gone and she had super soft shits. At least that’s what Reese said, she took care of the dog all day, I just gave her the treats. Oh well, Daddy Rules.” Both adult men looked at me and shrugged their shoulders, as I’m on my hands and knees cleaning up dog shit. But again, I told myself that the kids were fed and having a good time, the dog didn’t die, and I had a day to myself. So I guess I could classify that as a dad win. But that dad win bar is low as hell. Someday when he’s golfing all day and comes home, I’m just going to smear shit everywhere, make a mess of the house, force the kids to ask him a thousand questions, have the dog jump all over him, all while I ask him, “Hey babe, what’s for dinner?” The sad part is, he would think nothing was wrong with that and be excited to order pizza. Rose-colored dad glasses, we could all use a pair.
I think every mom reading this would agree that mom’s way is not the only “right” way to do things, but it’s absolutely the better way. Most dads would likely agree with that too. My kids might not agree with that, since they get away with many things while I’m away, but when they are adults, they’ll get it. I’ve learned to accept and love Jamie’s way of parenting. His way is just fine, borderline unsafe at times, but if nothing else, a great opportunity for our kids to create memories to share with their kids of when Dad was in charge. And the stories will likely entail blood, shit, candy, video games, very distant supervision, and somewhere in the background, a stiff drink.
The Mundame 