My Kids Found Out I’m a Jerk

You can't hide who you really are from your kids.

When my daughter was born, her skin was pale and pink, and she had the tiniest, most precious fingers and toes I had ever seen. When they put her on my chest, right after she popped out of me, the awe I felt was overwhelming.

Immediately, it dawned on me that we had a tremendous responsibility to this little human being. That meant my wife and I had to be perfect. Not just as parents, but as people too.

There was no room for error because if we screwed this up, we would be sending yet another mean girl to junior high to terrorize the less fortunate. Then our daughter would surely go on to become that female boss who talks about empowerment for her “sisters,” but simultaneously holds back each and every woman in her department from promotions.

There were so many ways we could screw this kid up.

This was something I knew about firsthand. My childhood was filled with screaming, swearing, booze, cigarettes, divorce, marriage, more divorce, boyfriends, more boyfriends and more booze. Now, I’m not blaming my parents (well, maybe just a little bit), but I ended up loud, pushy, domineering, and with the propensity to eat 13 Snickers bars in a row (in a closet so no one sees) when I have feelings.

But looking at my kid’s ridiculously cute face, I decided that I was not going to pass down one single solitary flaw of mine to this kid.

All the negative cycles would end with me.

Begin plan “Parental Perfection.”

From this point forward my kid’s food will be made from the freshest of ingredients. She will be introduced to avocado, spinach, seafood, wheat grass, acai (I’ll learn how to pronounce that as well), kale, goji berries, almond butter, seaweed chips, cacao powder and mangosteen. Perhaps we’ll consider a raw food diet. I believe it goes without saying that this child’s feet will never touch the laminate tile of any Golden Arches. Not once. Not even on special occasions. Not even because they have a playground and we’re on a 10-hour drive from Ohio, and we can’t find vegan chips. That won’t happen because I’ll plan ahead and bring large bags of healthy snacks from Whole Foods.

We will never talk about our daughter’s physical appearance lest we make her bulimic. But, we will, however tell her she is funny and strong and she can be anything, including President. That’s less of a big deal now that the bar has dropped so low, but it’s still something she can do, if she wants.

I will never swear around her, in front of her, or even in the same city that she lives in. I will have unprecedented amounts of patience. I will learn Spanish, so that on Sundays our family will have “Solamente Spanish Day” because data shows that bilingual children are geniuses.

I will never yell.

I will model my parenting after a friend who I once saw patiently separate her fighting children, giving each one the time to speak their piece, then walk them through an apology process where doves flew out of her handbag and everyone group-hugged. Obviously, we will “Single White Female” (the act of stealing things from people one looks up to. See also Bridget Fonda in the movie of the same name) every bit of parenting we can from this mom.

I will be the greatest version of myself.

Now, I realized this transformation might be difficult because I had been trying to be the greatest version of myself for a while now to little or no results. But, I reasoned that I didn’t have to keep up this ruse 24 hours a day; just in front of my kids. I could drink, swear, and be rude at the office.

I was sure that would be enough downtime.

But it turns out my plan wasn’t perfect. The first problem? I wasn’t raising my child alone. Yes, I was committed to forcibly jamming my flaws deep within the recesses of my soul, but my wife, Mary made no such agreement. Well, that’s not exactly true. She might have agreed, but I didn’t bother asking her if she was on board. Instead, I assumed that her flaws were polluting the very air that we breathed in our 600-square foot NYC apartment.

I began watching Mary as if she was a homeless person in a bodega attempting to steal cigarettes. I nagged. I over explained every new parenting system that I implemented while she was at work, and I lost my mind when whichever book I decided we were following at that moment was not followed to a T.

One could say that the very act of being “Super Naggy Wife” was me not being my best self, but I couldn’t get bogged down in the details because I was on a mission; our baby must not get broken.

Life got harder. We added another child into the mix, and as precious as he was, he screamed. A lot.

In spite of doubling down on my plan, cracks began to show in the façade.

I developed what I like to call the “Rosie O’Donnell Problem.” When Rosie first came onto the daytime TV scene, she was “The Queen of Nice.” She was the perfect host, hiding away her real-life opinions because moms in Alabama didn’t want to hear her talk about gays and gun control.

Her ratings soared, but she was on TV five days a week for five years, and over time, the real Rosie seeped through her made-for-TV persona. After Columbine, she broke and ended up yelling at Magnum P.I. for the entire world to see.

That’s exactly what happened in my house — minus Tom Selleck and the successful daytime talk show.

Despite my best intentions, before I knew it, I had said all of the following to my children: Because I said so. I don’t care what you think. Stop… Talking… Right…. Now (both with and without my pointer finger in their faces). I don’t have to give you a reason why. You’re not the boss, I am.

I have also repeatedly hidden my arm behind my back when my kids (who were supposed to be sound asleep) came out for water because I didn’t want them to see me eating a Nutty Buddy after I offered them fresh raspberries for dessert.

What made me think I could be a fake person, hiding away my flaws, that are every bit a part of me as the things that make me great?

The problem is that kids are too goddamn observant. They pick up on tone, body language and the general vibe in the house. Even if I was capable of tapping Mary on the arm and politely asking her to walk with me to our bedroom so I could yell at her behind closed doors, Dora’s screechy voice doesn’t drown me out, and the kids always hear.

Let’s face it. There’s a fatal flaw in my plan. I can maintain a diet of salads with tofu, nuts and berries in front of my children, but eventually they’re going to be smart enough to see my chubby frame and figure out that I’m eating macaroni and cheese, ribs and cheesecake when they’re not around.

The truth is that I want to be better. I want my kids’ lives to be better than mine was growing up. In a perfect world, I’d be like those Brooklyn moms who sign all their emails, “Loving mother of Cassidy and Cody.”

But I’m human, and I fail. A lot.

The good thing is that in those moments, I remember the woman that I shared an elevator with to pick up my daughter from daycare.

That day, I’d had a long night of interrupted sleep, a full day of work and the task of feeding my eight-month-old sweet potatoes (that she would definitely spit at me) was looming. All I wanted was to put my kid to bed, take off my bra and drink a large goblet of wine. So, when the other mom said, “What a day.”

I sighed and said, “Yeah, sometimes I just can’t wait for bedtime.”

The mom laughed and I knew we would be allies, until she said, “Yeah. I hear you. I’ve never felt like that. But, I guess I can understand what you’re saying.”

Then the doors opened and she pushed her stroller out of the elevator and went on her way, while I was left closing my mouth with my hand.

I spent the rest of the night making a scrunched-up face thinking about the elevator incident. Was I a horrible person because I wanted five minutes to myself? It’s not like I put my daughter in a basket and left her on the steps of the local firehouse.

Two glasses of wine later, I realized I felt bad for that mom. She must feel like she has to pretend that every single moment of her life is perfect.

The difference between her and me is that I know I’m not perfect. In fact, sometimes I stink. And now that my kids are older, they know it too. I have yet to be able to figure out how to let my daughter say black when it’s white. I mean what’s the harm in letting her say that cows can fly? None, but inside, I long to correct her.

But, I continue to try to do the best I can.

I try to let my kids have their feelings even though I want nothing more than to move them out of them and put us all on a check list so that the chaos will end.

I try to be present. I try to listen.

I clean up my messes. Last week when I was in the wrong with my daughter, I took approximately 27 million deep breaths, walked into her room, sat on the side of her bed and apologized for not listening to her and for expecting behavior from her that was beyond what should be expected. I hugged her and hoped that my apology landed, and that it would be enough.

It’s the very best I can do, and while it’s not perfect, it’s honest. And it will have to be enough.

And if it’s not, there’s always therapy!

PS This story was originally published April of 2018. Want to hear if I’ve managed to keep the honest life with my kids going since then? On Thursday I’ll be dropping some “Do My Kids Still Think I’m A Jerk?” BTS content. Subscribe so you don’t miss it. The button is right above this. You can’t miss it.