Daddy Look at Me!

One of the things I will never forget is a commercial I saw when Little One was just an infant. It has shaped me more on a day-to-day basis than any piece of “wisdom” I have ever read or was ever told to me.

I don’t remember the exact group behind the commercial. I’m thinking it was one of those anti-drug PSAs, but I’m not sure. The images are a bit cloudy but the message, however, is burned into my brain. As a new father at the time dealing with a lot of new feelings, it seared an incredibly powerful message into my very core.

We’re treated to a series of flashbacks of a little girl: as a wobbly ballerina, then riding her bicycle, playing with a ball, in a soccer uniform or as an innocent cheerleader doing kicks. Each time she does a little something and she says, “Hey Daddy! Look at me!” And the father is always distracted – talking to other men, making deals over the phone, watching teevee, stuff like that. The last scene is of the little girl now in her late teens, sweaty, hair stringey and makeup running, smoking pot. She looks at the camera and mumbles, “Hey Daddy, look at me.”

Get it? I certainly did.

Every day I get … oh … let’s say about eighty to a hundred and twenty “Hey Daddy”ies. These “Hey Daddy”ies are either inflected to precede a question or vocalized in an urgent manner to get my attention, usually as a prerequisite to a “Look at me!” request. Now, you may think that it’s either a) cute, or b) wonderful that I am so loved and adored, and, yes, I do agree with you. I really do. But after the fortieth or fiftieth “Hey Daddy,” knowing I’m probably only a third of the way towards my total daily allotment of “Hey Daddy”ies, I’m seriously contemplating becoming a Carthusian monk. Those are the monks that spend all day in a cave meditating on esoteric holy mysteries, after having taken a vow of silence.

I say this only half in jest.

As a stay-at-home-dad-by-economic-fiat-rather-than-by-choice, I’m going crazy. I watch Patch about seven hours a day. I watch Little One after school for four hours a day. That’s 35 hours a week, 20 of them with two children, 15 with one. Normally I get a 2-hour break around 12 to 2, but a lot of that time is spent online seeking jobs, which sooner rather than later turns into mindless web surfing. Now that we’re winding up school, Little One has four straight days of half-days, which eliminates that daily 2-hour break and adds 2 hours daily to my child-sitting sentence. Next week it will be summer vacation, and I’ll have two little ones to watch, ten hours a day, five days a week.

My “Hey Daddy” allotment will most likely rise by fifty percent in this period.

Okay, okay, so I’m griping here. I remember, just a few sentences ago I agreed that I’m lucky to be loved and they’re really cute. I am and they are. But, dammit, I need a break sometimes. Usually by four pm every day. Definitely by seven, when the wife gets home.

Then – that commercial. I remember that commercial pretty much every single day. While I’m typing this out Little One, sitting at her mother’s desk doing some sort of artsy-craftsy project, has already interrupted me three times. And because of that commercial, I pause, take a deep breath, feel my blood pressure rise but hope that I don’t consciously help it, and I attend to her needs. Because of that commercial.

But … today is my Official Day Off! Alleluia! I only get two days off, officially (Father’s Day and my birthday, sometimes), so I plan on enjoying it to the hilt! Yeah, I’m at my parent’s house with a zillion other people, so I will be disappearing with a couple of books and a couple of Clausthalers. I hope any fathers out there reading this can say the same thing (except with real beer) and have a great time. I wish a happy Father’s Day to all the dads in my life! Enjoy!