I’m The Dad That Makes Other Dads At The Park Jealous
I am that father at the park that makes you fucking jealous because he’s killing this dad thing. You look at me and think I’ve got it all put together. And you’re right. I’m motherfucking amazing.
How am I so fucking incredible, you ask? What makes me the dad at the park other kids point to and cry, “Why can’t my dad be like you?” while they mentally write the first chapter of their tell-all book about their own shitty dad? It’s more than just my stellar looks. I’ll tell you the secret.
I wasn’t always this drop-dead incredible. There was a time when I was like you, a total fucking failure as a father. I didn’t know how to be awesome. Then, I met someone who showed me how to unleash my inner awesomeness. He didn’t take me aside and explain to me the ways of parenting. He was just another dad, not goddamn Yoda. No, I just watched him and then copied what he did, made it my own, created my own awesomeness, put my own epic spin on that motherfucker.
My twin sons were about three or four. We went with some friends who had a son the same age to a small park and met their friend, who also had a son the same age. Kid-wise, we had a posse of four and there were three other ankle-biters already there, too.
I’m just standing there watching my twins eat sand or whatever and the new kid in our posse — the one we’d just met through our friends — runs up to his dad and goes, “Hey, Pop. Can I have my costume?” And the father opens his backpack and pulls out a Spider-Man costume.
Boom, right? He knows his boy’s whims enough to bring the suit along. Good for you, man. At this point in my fatherly career, I still forgot to bring water or put socks on my boys. So, this dude is already better at the game than me, the asshole.
As his kid transitions from regular kid to full-on web slinger, my boys run up to this dude and ask, “Can I have a costume, too?” I quickly pulled them aside and said, “I don’t think he brought a backpack full of costumes, guys.” I was trying not to sound sarcastic, but my natural tone always has the faint odor of it, so I didn’t sound very comforting. But then, something happened that flipped my perspective all the way the fuck over.
This dad with the backpack goes, “Yeah, guys. Here you go.” And he pulls two more costumes out of his motherfucking bag like Felix the goddamn Cat.
Then, our friends’ kid runs over and makes the same request and, boom again, he pulls out another costume. Then, the three rando kids that we didn’t even know trot up and ask for costumes, too, and lo and fucking behold, he pulls out three more fucking costumes out of this bag. So we had seven short superheroes running around this shitty little playground, but this one dad was the goddamn savior. He was Jesus motherfucking Christ, but instead of loaves and fishes, he’s clothing the masses to look like Wolverine and Captain America.
That day, I vowed to never be caught without a bag of motherfucking radness. I brought more costumes than my kids would ever need or want, as well as Hot Wheels cars, Lego bricks, puzzles, superballs. And as my boys have grown, I traded my bag for a car trunk and their costumes for every fucking kind of plaything that could ever be requested of an awesome dad.
My trunk is full of basketballs, scooters, tennis equipment, Frisbees, kick-balls — if a kid wants to play with it, chances are I’ve got it. Not only do my boys get to show that I’m just a freaking tremendous father, but their friends and even random kids now know I’m the motherfucking guy to see if you want to rock the fucking park.
“You want to borrow a skateboard? Sure, what size?”
“You’d like to use a remote control car? You got it. You want the Charger or the Mustang?”
All of the moms smile and wave at me and all of the dads stare in slack-jawed awe of my fucking epicness. I’m the goddamn Willy Wonka of our suburb.
So, if you’re a shitty dad, just be like me. All you have to do is have fun shit with you all the time. Jesus, man, it’s not that hard.