Last night, I got home late from work. Around 6:40 p.m. My wife was going out to dinner with her girlfriend, so I was the bather, feeder, put-to-bedder for the evening. I was cranky. Actually, I was more than cranky. I was in a downright foul mood, for no reason other than I was tired and hungry.
My wife was outside with our kids, who were playing in the backyard. My ten-year-old daughter was barefoot and covered in mud. My three-year-old son looked like he'd had a close encounter with the Swamp Thing. I must admit, in the back of my mind, I was harboring the hope that my wife had already fed and bathed my son. She hadn't. And I got pissed.
I helped my wife capture my wild son, who was running down the alley, trying to escape the inevitable bath. In the process, I stepped in a pile of dogshit. There I was, screaming child under one arm, school books under the other arm, dragging my foot through the grass to remove the excrement, walking to my front door.
When I got inside, my mood, if possible, was even worse. My daughter was trying to complete some kind of experiment with dirt she'd been conducting in the backyard, and my son was yelling at full volume for my wife not to leave. Then I had to sit down and figure out how much money was left in the checking account for my wife to go out to eat. Well, when I realized that our cash situation was grim, to say the least, it just about pushed me over the precipice.
I grabbed my wailing son, started to strip him out of his clothes. He kicked me, repeatedly, in the stomach. My daughter was in the kitchen, doing something. I told my wife, "Just leave. He'll be easier to handle once you're gone."
She left.
I finally got my son naked. I left him crying "mommy, mommy, mommeeeeeee" on the living room floor. I went into the kitchen. My daughter had managed to cover the kitchen counter and top of the clothes dryer with dirt and mud. I lost it.
I yelled her name. "Really?!" I steamed. "Get in here and clean up the mess you made right now! Move it! How can you be so piggy?! I don't have time to clean up after you, too! You're old enough to know better!" As I said this, I stormed into the bathroom.
There was my daughter, sobbing, holding a plate with two Little Debbie Zebra Cakes on it. She lifted the plate up to me and said, "Happy birthday, Daddy."
I stood in front of her, stunned and ashamed. I started to cry. "I'm so sorry, sweety," I said. I hugged her. "Daddy's so sorry. He shouldn't have talked to you like that." Of course, I could barely speak. "I'm so sorry. Thank you. I'm sorry. Thank you."
Then she gave me a card she'd made for me. Inside, this is what she'd written:
Dear daddy,
I am sorry this has to come late. I really just wanted to tell you something. I really, really, really, really, really love you. No matter how old you get you're still the best dad in the world. No matter what. I may be the oldest but I am still your little girl.
Well, that did it. I felt like the worst father in the world. I still feel like the worst father in the world.
My daughter managed to change my whole attitude in a matter of seconds. She lit the candles she'd stuck in the Zebra Cakes, and she and my son sang "Happy Birthday" to me. I gave baths, prepared snacks, sang lullabyes. I watched The X Factor with my daughter.
This morning, Saint Marty doesn't believe he's the best father in the world. But Saint Marty does believe he has the best daughter in the world.
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| The best daughter in the world |
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