Sorry! You’re a bad parent!
Spoiler Alert: There isn’t one.
The more I think about it, the clearer it becomes that there is no laundry list of items that I can check off that will certify me as an empirically good parent.
If Evie were only fed organic, baby-safe ambrosia brought down from the heights of Olympus itself—that would not necessarily make me a good father.
If our daughter had been exposed to the collected works of Shakespeare, Milton, Chuck Palahnuik, and Susan Sontag while still in utero—that would not be a reliable indicator that my wife and I are okay parents.
If we never, ever spank her—even that is no guarantee of good parenting credentials.
When I was about five years old, I got myself lost in a big department store. When my dad found me, he swooped right in and slapped me across the face, followed by a stern “Don’t you ever do that to me again.”
I can still remember the heat of the aftermath on my cheek. The sudden fear and humiliation, the looks of bystanders.
What I don’t remember, but now recognize, was that the slap was my dad expressing fear. Fear that gripped and consumed him as he searched. Every second, the fear grew; its cold hand gripping his heart a little tighter with each beat.
Slap!
My father had never struck me before. Or since.
My father just turned 84 last week. He has always tried to be the best father he could be. Despite the preceding memory, the fact that I slept on my tummy as newborn—hey, it was the 60s, people—and that he exposed me to more Alvarez Guedes than Oscar Wilde, every day that goes by I am ever more grateful for his example.
The fact is that I can only endeavor to be a good father. The ultimate judge of my efforts is asleep in her Rock ‘n Play as I write this.
My dad is a good father. My hugs and “I-love-yous” are the only accolades he gets. Now that I have Evie, well, I should be so lucky.
