February 27: Father, Corporation Lawyer, Dad Worries

...My father's quite wealthy, though.  I don't know how much he makes--he's never discussed that stuff with me--but I imagine quite a lot.  He's a corporate lawyer.  Those boys really haul it in.  Another reason I know he's quite well off, he's always investing money in shows on Broadway.  They always flop, though, and it drives my mother crazy when he does it....

Holden doesn't hold too high of an opinion about his father.  He knows what his father does for a living, and he knows that he doesn't want to follow in his father's footsteps.  He thinks all lawyers are only interested in making "a lot of dough," playing golf and bridge, buying cars, drinking Martinis, and looking "like a hot-shot."  In short, Holden thinks his dad is a phony.

My worry this Wednesday is a worry that has plagued me since the birth of my daughter almost 13 years ago.  I worry I'm not being a good father.  It doesn't help that I'm reading this book called Courageous for my book club, and all it's about is being a good father.  I'm not saying it's a good book.  It's a novelization of a movie made by a bunch of right-wing, conservative Christians.  I don't really buy into all the ideas being put forth in its pages.  Lots of stuff about the man being the leader of the house, and women having to listen to them.  Having been basically raised by five older sisters and a mother who could put the fear of God into any member of the Taliban, I can't really see the women in my life following me in the Charge of the Light Brigade, if you get my meaning.  Plus, the writing in the book is bad.

One thing Courageous does manage is to make me feel incredibly guilty.  See, all the guys in the book are workaholic cops whose families are falling apart.  I've always felt guilty about the amount of time I spend at work.  Take yesterday, for example.  I left the house at 4:30 a.m., and I didn't return until 8:40 p.m.  I didn't even see my son awake yesterday.  On good days, I get about two hours of waking time with him before he goes to bed, and I get about three-and-a-half hours with my twelve-year-old daughter.  And it's not quality time.  It's me nagging my daughter to do her homework or practice her flute, forcing my son into the bathtub, making school lunches, and...Well, you get the idea.  I'm the ogre of the house when I walk through the door.

I actually can live with that.  But last night, when I picked my daughter up from her dance class, her instructor came up to me and said, "I'm just wondering if your daughter is planning to go to Green Bay for the competition."  I actually felt my face flush with embarrassment.  My daughter would love to go to this dance competition.  All her friends are going to this competition.  She is not going.  I don't have the money for it.  "No," I told her teacher, "we can't this year."

When we got to the car, I told my daughter I was sorry she couldn't go.  "That's OK, Daddy," she said.  "I don't mind."

That should have been it, but I've been in failure-father mode ever since.  I can't shake it off.  Here is a list of what is going through my head:

1. I spend so much time at work and away from home that my son in going to join the Crips when he's seven.
2. I make so little money that my daughter is going to start doing lap dances in high school so she can afford the prom.
3. The roof of my house is going to collapse, and we're going to have to live in an pre-Extreme Home Makeover home.
4. My son is going to end up flunking out of Pencey Prep...Oh, wait.  That's Holden.  Never mind.

You  get the idea.  I'm feeling life a failure with a capital "F."

Saint Marty needs something happy to think about, like the sequestration cuts.

At least I don't have a mullet...any more