Day 170: "Lighten up, Francis."

I’ve actually never been that fond of that overused quote from “Stripes,” but damned if Sgt. Hulka’s directive to Francis wasn’t fitting last night as I watched my daughter’s gymnastics class.

I use “class” very, very loosely here, because anytime you gather a bunch of three-, four-, and five-year olds together in one confined space, what you have is less of a classroom atmosphere and more of chaos. But the “chaos” in this situation was meant to be fun, as gymnastics and other activities merely meant to get kids out of the house and into motion is supposed to be. This isn’t panic inducing, stress creating, or tension filled chaos. But I swear to all that is sane, you would have never guessed by watching the psycho father I witnessed for an hour straight sitting at the opposite end of the gym from me.

Look, I’m 44. I’ve seen my share of overbearing, short-tempered fathers berating their kids for no good reason over the years. What was so concerning and troublesome about this monkey was how young he was. My best guess is he was in his mid-20s and certainly not yet into his thirties. His immaturity and lack of patience showed. Not once did he crack a smile. Not once did he commend his daughter. Not once did he look excited to be there, although he certainly looked to have spent considerable time in his closet picking out just the right yuppie-ish clothes meant to make an impression. He certainly spent more than a few minutes on his perfectly kept hair, and he certainly took his sweet time picking out the fashionable sunglasses sitting ever so neatly on the top of his head. What he didn’t take the time to do was remember we were supposed to be having fun here. This wasn’t a competition. How could it be? Not a single kid could pull off a damn summersault yet. Yet, he couldn’t quit criticizing and couldn’t start back patting.

Worse, the dummy not only made the daughter trying to spin and roll around and jump in the air miserable, he made the other daughter, probably three or younger, miserable by just daring to exist in his presence. Every time she stood up, he sat her down forcibly, despite the fact we were in a gym where at least another dozen kids were making noise and running around and at least a dozen other parents didn’t have a problem with that fact.

Damned if I couldn’t foresee these poor kids’ future, one I’m pretty sure will involve resenting the heavy hands by which their father ruled, and one that involves them sharing few if any of the important details of their life later on with him because they didn’t trust him, because he seemed incapable of showing any nurturing, and because I’m guessing he's  capable of showing even less compassion.

I realize it’s not fair to judge someone whom I’ve literally never spoken a word to and I am basing all my information on simple observations, but I have decent instincts, and they all told me something terribly sad: He just didn’t get it.

Having children is such a gift and such an opportunity to learn about yourself and life. Having little girls somehow only amplifies that. They look to you for protection. They don’t want to fear you. They don’t want to cower. They don’t to live under constant judgment. When I see fathers so young who don’t get this, I feel tremendous pain for their children. Time is so fleeting, and the opportunity daughters and sons have to look at their father as someone who isn’t constantly angry or frustrated or full of spite but instead as someone who is supportive and encouraging and a source of warmth is one they can’t redo. When I see a jackass blowing this because he’s more worried about how’s he being perceived than how he can make his child’s life more fulfilling and enriched, I want to scream.

Last night, I didn’t scream, but I did promise myself to take a longer look at what my job is as a father and how I can best do it and let go of the petty, inconsequential stuff in favor of holding dear what is really important and vital.