A seven-year-old boy recently called me “weird” when I tried to explain feminism to him. We were playing Mario Kart. After he beat my ass I concluded I didn’t know how to interact with kids. My paternal confidence plummeted further when screaming children disabled my ability to shop at IKEA.
On a later trip to visit family, I worried this might affect the way I interact with my nieces. I’d have to figure out how to be a “fun uncle” and also act like some sort of authority figure. The two toddlers who would be there didn’t worry me – their mothers watched them like hawks – but Jessie, also age seven, would bring the real challenge.
Through intermittent long-distance visits, I got to see Jessie grow. Her energy was something like a rabbit on meth. Her imagination soared and often landed in territory that left me discombobulated.
My partner Luke has dozens of nieces and nephews and knew exactly how entertain Jessie. He could easily play “pretend” while I watched in horror. When my turn to play came, I could stand about 60 seconds exploring a magical fairy land before running off in a needy frenzy for adult company.
Being an authority figure seemed even harder. At a restaurant Jessie begged her mother to get an adult meal and picked an expensive item. My exhausted sister surrendered and ordered it, but when it arrived Jessie decided she didn’t like the way it looked and refused to eat it. She demanded that we ask her questions about lemons instead.
We took mom’s side, but she rejected our pleas, insisting on more questions about lemons. Other customers began to stare. Luke swooped in and asked her how many lemons were in a lemon meringue pie. Finally her screams turned to laughter and Jessie was satisfied.
Over the next few days I realized that I was losing my crusade to revive paternal instincts. Jessie distanced herself; I wasn’t the coolest adult around. And though she showed plenty of love, she was correct. I simply did not have the craft. I imagined I’d be a horrible father.
On the final night of our visit the family again ventured to a restaurant. As we waited for a table I saw a golden opportunity to win Jessie over one last time. I devised a genius plan to expend all of her energy out on the sidewalk and still show her a good time. Perhaps this way she could even sit still during dinner.
I bet her that she couldn’t tag the light post and get back in five seconds. Jessie loved it and sped off. As she returned and I contemplated another round, Luke smelled something bad. We looked down and noticed that in the course of my game, Jessie had stepped in dog shit … twice.
She screamed it ruined the new shoes she got for Christmas. Luke tried to calm her down and show her how to scrape it off but it wasn’t enough and she began to cry.
Only restoring Jessie’s shoes would solve this little disaster. Luke picked her up and I slid them off. We slipped back into the restaurant, telling her not to scream the phrase “dog poop.” Luke and I snuck off to the restroom, carrying shoes caked with fresh dog shit past tables and a sushi bar, probably violating many health codes.
We tried our best to clean the treads with hot water, and even though it began working I couldn’t help but feel like I failed this little girl yet again. Right when I thought I had made my most clever move, shit happened – literally. Nothing felt more defeating than getting my hands dirty in dog crap to save a pair of pink tennis shoes.
By the time we finished everyone else was seated. I felt foolish, but my sister welcomed us with a smile from ear to ear, declaring that I would make an amazing father after all. She explained that any person willing to do something so gross to make a child feel better would make an excellent parent. Apparently I had won my crusade after all, just not in the way I had imagined.
Jessie thanked us with sweet hugs and kisses. For the rest of the night, the two of us gifted each other with pictures on napkins while I let Luke have the adult conversations. Jessie sat still the entire time.
