Phony Phather

We have a winner.  The award for Most Unrealistic Dad of the Year goes to....Subaru Car wash Dad.  You've seen SuperDad haven't you?  The dad whose reaction to discovering his kids have scrubbed his Subaru outside and IN with suds and toothpaste is to chuckle and tell them they missed a spot?  What a guy!  I would have had a very similar reaction.  As in, "You missed a spot.  The one on your ass where I'm going to plant my foot."  Many of us dads are out here trying to do the right thing, trying to balance being a good father, a good husband, a competent employee and maybe, call me crazy, carving out a little time for themselves.  Then along comes Subaru Guy making us all look bad.  If he makes Jason Seaver look like Adolf Hitler, how the heck am I supposed to compete?

I know it's silly to compare myself to fictional dads and, truthfully, I don't.  But also true is that I have been examining my reactions to Grace.  I do lose my patience too often.  As Grace grows up, she grows more obstinate and I grow more frustrated.  Any event that requires time management, especially bedtime, as everyone edges toward crankiness, has become a nightmare.  When the clock is running on something she doesn't want to do, Grace turns into the Human Stall Machine.  I swear she's considering a career as a mercenary protester.  (You need someone to go rag doll so as to be difficult to drag away from this tree/historic building/oil refinery?  I'm your gal.  "Hell no, I won't go!")  She'll find any excuse to put off what she needs to do.  Playing, setting up baby dolls, asking for a glass of water and delivering hugs are all tactics employed to delay the inevitable.  Each night she picks at least one task (brushing teeth, going potty, putting on pajamas) and treats it like a death sentence, desperate to avoid it at all costs.  All the foot dragging makes each bedtime longer and more frustrating than a James Cameron movie.

As the stalling goes longer, my patience grows thinner.  Asking turns into encouraging.  Encouraging turns into cajoling.  Cajoling turns into threatening.  Threatening turns into arguing.  Arguing turns into threats carried out which turns to tears as Grace gets a story or stuffed animal taken away.  I am truly searching for answers because some nights I feel like a terrible parent.  I walk the line between, "Oh, she's four, get over it." and "She needs to learn respect and responsibility without questioning or ignoring every request."  Is cooperation and compliance too much to ask?  Nearly every bedtime disintegrating into a crying, shouting struggle does no one any good. 

We've tried lots of plans -making a game of it, clearly explaining expectations, earning rewards- yet nearly every night, no matter how pleasant it begins, ends with me battered, feeling I have barely survived a street fight.  If bedtime is a basketball game, I am the Washington Generals .  Of course, once we get to lights out, Grace still makes her room tougher to exit than the Hotel California.  A million questions about tomorrow's schedule, adjusting the nightlight, exchanging her stuffed animals, anything that will keep us in the room "one more minute."  I always feel like a dick when I finally pry myself away and tell her enough is enough.  She needs her rest and Amanda and I need time to unwind.  I don't want to turn in to a drill Sergeant with cartoon steam pouring from my ears, but it seems that's where we head most nights.  I long for the night when the great things about bedtime (stories, snuggles and goodnight kisses) are the only things about bedtime.  Until then, I trudge wearily off to battle.  Somebody cue "Sweet Georgia Brown".