Welcome back to Minor Dilemmas, where a member of Defector's Parents Council will answer your questions on surviving family life. Have a question? Email us at minordilemmas@defector.com.
This week, Ray answers a question about making sure you don't turn into your own father.
Xxx:
My spouse and I are expecting our first child, a little girl, in five months. We're both in our late 30s, and thought this might be the last-chance saloon for a family expansion, so we're thrilled we kinda beat the odds here (suck it, Kalshi). We have a wonderful marriage, if I do say so myself, and are on the same page in terms of parenting strategy, so this tiny human will be meeting a united front of care, compassion, and what-the-fuck-were-you-thinking reprimanding.
The thing is, and I'm not sure I've really told my spouse much about this, so I'm telling you, cause that's what one does, is that I'm really scared of being a bad father. Not like leave-the-family or throw-a-chair-at-a-kid bad, but emotionally unavailable or even worse, quiet and sulky when conflict arises.
My own father was a master of this, and it scared me to death. I see it sometimes when my wife and I get into some petty disagreement and I retreat into my shell like some sort of emotionally stunted teenage ninja turtle. It sucks, and I'm trying to get better, but I'm worried, Minor Dilemmas!
I'm worried about "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" being very clearly "I'm mad" and I'm worried about things she cannot control turning into things I'm irrationally mad at, and then I go turtle-time.
I don't want to be like this to my daughter. I want to be open as hell, I want her to know how I'm feeling, and I want her to know that when things get tense, I'm not gonna shut down. Will I be OK? Will she be OK? Do things change when this little helpless human arrives and you realize that you're her everything and those shitty traits in me melt away, should I keep working on it, or what?
You are seriously overthinking this. Not that cocooning is a good parenting strategy, mind you. If you show fear, your children will destroy you and leave your smoking corpse by a freeway abutment.
You have five months before little Brandiii-with-three-Is shows up, and months more before she starts exhibiting any interest in you. You are essentially on scholarship until that moment, so there's nothing wrong with a little prep work to reduce your odds of catching a lacrosse stick across the earhole from Princess Angry. Starting with talking to the vessel of your joint heritage and being up front about your concerns is the right place to start, and let her know that you expect her to be your backup in those moments when you feel like turtling. Let her catch you going into a mood so she can see the danger signs and give you a gentle nudge in the larynx before it gets weird. The more you can warn her about it ahead of time, the less they can call you on it later. We in the business call it "blame delegation," and it has kept more marriages alive than restrictive prenups.
And don't worry that you think that admitting your concerns might make you seem weak. She'll have plenty of loopy behaviors you can call her on, and even after you take off the top 35 percent because of post-partum hormones and sleeplessness, she'll have traits that she'll need help arresting too. Mothers aren't perfect. They're just better than fathers.
Conflicts will happen, because children are strategically molded lampreys until that glorious day when you can see their taillights fading into the distance that one last time. Do not steal this rite of passage from them—the one where they are the sullen, uncommunicative ones, from ages 12 to 17. This is where you give little Wombat Face the only piece of advice that will absolutely stick with her: "OK, you walking therapy bill, here's the deal. You're at the age now where you want to hate your parents, and we get that. We hated our parents too. That's what parents are for. But in this house/apartment/car trunk/wooded glade we call home, you only get to hate one of us, and we get to pick which one. And that parent is me. And no objections on the setup; the voting on that is closed. Bring your obnoxiousness here, because your mom is Switzerland and shall be treated as such. She solves the problems you need solved. For all your other adolescent bullshit, it's 1-888-MEAN-DAD. Open all hours."
The value in this is that both of you will know how problems get solved. You have a standard you know how to meet, the little shriekster has a guide to how conflicts get adjudicated, and your spouse will appreciate your generosity in taking the lousy job off her hands and stop putting paint thinner in your post-work beer. If you make a deal with both of them and tell them to call you on it, your chances of becoming the pouty doofus that they both ignore and secretly loathe are greatly diminished.
Understand, though, that doesn't make it smooth sailing. By managing your biggest concern, other, smaller ones will arise that will irk both the wife and offspring, and you are entitled to those. Behaviors aren't like DNA. Your dad's crimes will be different from your own, and since you are a titular adult, it's part of your job to spot those too. Don't solve them all, of course. You need some fun, too, and befuddling your child every now and then is part of the payoff.
In other words, you're a father, and as such you are entitled to lean into behaving like an engaged but annoying jackwagon over the tiniest provocation: "The laundry basket is not a secondary target”; "OK, you don't like lima beans, so come up with a side dish suggestion that doesn't end in 'nachos' or learn to forage"; "The car belongs in the driveway, not on the porch, so give me the keys while you study the layout of the property." If nothing else, little Neuralgia will wish for the odd emotional distancing that you seem to think is your lot in life.
In short, organize your freakouts chronologically, and solve them in the order that they arise. Your problem, such as it is, is still years away, and there are plenty of things to drive you to tequila shooters for breakfast in the meantime. Now go away.
