Dear Ruinous, Tender Dad,
This is not the era of Everybody Loves Raymond. You are not helpless. You do not infantilize me or you by pretending to have “learned helplessness.”
You do stereotypically man things and woman things. You cook meals without recipes. You cut the yard in jorts. You go downstairs with nothing but a towel around your waist when I am too cowardly to check a child’s chore progress. “No sudden movements!” I yell, gleefully, from my safe perch at the top of the stairs. You allow me my perches, to love our people from my perches, to resist the ruthless presence of the tiger mom or the mama bear or even the primary parent. Along with the dog, you are a true co-parent.
And yet you are still ruinous. We both are, I know, I know, I know, but I have been socialized to make my ruin smoother.
I have been socialized to read parenting books (which, as you know, I prefer to call human development books.) You have been socialized to read James Patterson. (I do appreciate that one time you read dense Bessel van der Kolk for me; You should know I’d die—in a good way—if you ever asked me to read a book, an article, hell, a catalog for you.)
I have been socialized to assess people’s needs (which, as you know, is both gift and hubris.) You have been socialized to assess your own needs. (And I do love that your needs so often include hanging out with me, but I worry that the other kids on the playground will feel excluded, by which I mean our own kids, if you keep needing rated-R movies.)
I have been socialized to defuse anger (which, as you know, is code for absenting myself entirely from the situation and cleaning some part of my room, body, or mind.) You have been socialized to escalate anger. (As we’ve discussed, this does the opposite of making you a man but reads to me like a small boy, like baby brother boy energy. And it only proves to the other kids on the playground, by which I mean our own kids, that what they are doing is working, and you’re losing, which means we’re losing, because they still lump my failings in with your failings, you tiny angry turd, so excuse me while I go dust my keyboard.)
What I am trying to say is you’re ruining the brand for the both of us.
And, also, I like you. I like how the tenderness you have for me makes it possible for me to show tenderness to them. In that way, we kind of are a lump, and mostly I am okay with being lumped with you. I like how when I ask the therapist in front of you, “But, like, how do you show tenderness to them?” you don’t realize I’m being coercively curious, but she does, and when she points it out instead of losing your shit you laugh. I like that you are the only one I know who loathes “parenting” more than I by which I mean loathes emotional labor and growing and reading non-verbal cues in a way that is non-anxious. I like that your life is mostly exterior while mine is mostly interior which means that other kids on the playground, by which I mean our own kids, can grab a hold of something, and climb up you like a hike. Because you’re here. You’re vertical. You’re not horizontal in the bedroom with the lights off and noise-cancelling headphones on, un-ironically playing a loving kindness meditation.
What I am trying to say is I like watching you try.
XO,
Erin
P.S. Speaking of ruinous, tender dads, have you seen Jason Segel yet in Shrinking? Dad magic.
P.P.S. Speaking of ruinous, tender marriages, have you seen Queen Charlotte yet? I liked it the most-est so far of the Bridgerton series.
P.P.P.S Speaking of trying, it’s Juneteenth and worth celebrating how it takes all kinds of adults to liberate our kids (and ourselves.) This article from Courtney E. Martin in the The Christian Science Monitor shows how one community is trying.
What a great love letter! :)