Bad Dad

(Note: This essay is an extended metaphor; the three “daughters” are not literal. Instead, they represent three portions of my epic fantasy trilogy set in the Stone Age. “Ed” represents the developmental editor who reviewed half of the 190,000 words in my epic. My wife and I have three living, breathing daughters, who are more important than the manuscripts. All of our real girls are in their twenties. Not one is a gambler; not one is in trouble with the law!)

My dear readers—
            I must be quick! I had planned to ask you, “How far would you go for the woman of your dreams?” But unfortunately, that sentinel question will have to wait. I’ve been a bad dad.
            If you have ever raised a teenager daughter, then you likely understand the urgency and severity of my current problem. My epic fantasy, previously named Crumble’s End, turned 16 just the other day. I missed her birthday completely; I never bought her a present; and I certainly never baked her a cake. That evening she slid this crumpled note underneath my bedroom door.

            Dad. You don’t care about me. You never did, and you never will. That’s why I’m gonna do what I wanna do, whenever I wanna do it. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!

Epic

            I’ve been a bad dad. At least my eldest daughter thinks so.
            Now I’m reaping the harvest of my lax example, as my beloved Epic’s emotions are boiling over. She has been yelling at me day and night for two full years. She hasn’t listened to a word I’ve said. And I haven’t been hearing her, either.
            It’s even worse than it sounds. My eldest recently went gambling—where the money came from, I can only guess—and won a crimson-red car with mag wheels and a gigantic, roaring, gas-guzzling engine. She instantly became a drag racing, reckless driver. (Her ferocious side is barely containable, but clearly worse when behind a wheel.) The policemen have been in my driveway almost daily ever since. Last time they told me all her strikes were up. The next incident she would go to jail. If I cared about her safety at all, I would take away her car keys. So today I finally did it. But it wasn’t pretty.
            My girl needs to learn that I’m the father. I’m in charge. That’s why, to her utter dismay and against her wishes, I changed her name. She needed a brand-new start. I told her plainly, “For the foreseeable future, you will no longer be called Crumble’s End. You will be known as Chalan and Diasic: Blessed Seed.”
            “You can’t do that to me!” she screamed, “I won’t let you!” Then she added the kind of emphasis that smokes and ought never to be printed.
            “Oh yes, I can,” I said. “I’m your father. In fact, I changed your name already. Furthermore, you’re getting professional counseling, and medicine, too.”

*          *          *

            I took my hard-headed girl to a high-end clothing store where I bought her a brand-new matching outfit, classy shoes, a sharp belt, the works. It was tailored exactly to her stunning figure. We had never gone shopping for clothes before. Then we got her a new hairdo with highlights. How jealous were her little sisters, crying, “Me, too! Me, too!” What a racket they made.
            After that, we made an appointment with a well-respected counselor, Ed the Editor, who spent several days with us. He told us he had seen our exact problem before, far too many times, but he knew how to help.
            My daughter needed to slow down, think, take her time, stop racing from place to place. She needed to listen before speaking, then answer properly in response to whatever was said to her. No longer could she just blurt out whatever she wanted to, as if nothing she did ever had any consequences.
            My daughter hung her head at first. But then Ed listed some of her amazing and obvious strengths in personality and voice. “But all of those great things are being overshadowed by your many childish behaviors,” he said. “Stop it!”
            I confess, I almost expected her to scream at us, or at least at me. But she didn’t. Instead, she lifted her eyes and nodded.
            Ed called me the following day, once I was better rested, to offer some personal and private advice. What he had to say was painful. I couldn’t even understand what he meant when he first said I needed to Show my girl how to live, not just Tell her.
            “I’ve always been Showing her, never just Telling!” I said.
            “No, TAT. You haven’t. And you’re even abandoning your daughter, repeatedly, in the most dangerous of times, right when it matters the most.”
            His counsel eventually made sense.
            But unfortunately, there was more. Ed said I’d also given my girl unrealistic expectations. I’d asked her to mature too quickly. Often I had insisted she get from one place to another in the snap of a finger, as if by magic, not considering the time required for her journey. That made sense.
            Today my first-born and I are starting over, but at a better pace. We’re going back to basics, beginning with please and thank you. We’re going to sit down for dinner, from this night forward, and have our meals together. We have determined to speak to each other properly and to wait until everyone has finished eating before leaving the table. That’s our plan.
            Sometimes I still feel like such a bad dad. What kind of father forgets to Show instead of Tell? But Ed said all these things could change rather quickly. In just six months, I might have a whole new daughter, ready to meet the world, and she might have an all-new dad. My youngest daughters will need this same redirection, no doubt. But they are taking careful notes as their big sister grinds her way through adolescence. Perhaps their journey will be easier.
            All three of my daughters are delightful, though rarely at the same time. They’re growing up fast, even when I don’t always see it. Yesterday we jumped on the trampoline together, made a lot of noise, and didn’t care when we all fell down. Later that night, my three girls wrote me a note and slipped it underneath my bedroom door. The youngest one had colored it in with crayon. All three giggled softly as they padded back to bed; they were supposed to be sleeping:

Dear Dad,

You are our Dad! And you’re the best Dad ever!

Love,

Your Three Fantastic Daughters

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