Superhero No More

April 30, 2012. I'd never thought I'd be able to specifically pinpoint the (hopefully distant) future point at which I ceased to be everything in my little girl's eyes. But today, I broke something.

Don't get me wrong--I know she still loves me, and I also know that she knows I love her with all my heart. But I managed to disappoint her in a way I have thus far been able to avoid.

Her 2nd grade class is going to a local park/nature preserve tomorrow. Each 2nd grade class goes twice: once in the fall and again in the spring. A couple of years ago, Alex missed the fall trip due to illness but when his class went to the park in the spring, I was able to chaperone. This past fall, I went along with Cassie's class. I planned all along to skip the spring trip, since now I've made one trip with each child. For me, the day at the park gets really long, and to be honest, I'm not at my best with a group of kids; I just don't have that kind of innate patience. I thought Cassie had known I wasn't going all along. At least, I thought that when I said I'd join her class on their last two visits to the senior home this year, that I also mentioned that I wasn't signing up for the upcoming park trip.

At dinner tonight, she made some comment like, "Don't forget tomorrow!" I had a sneaking suspicion what she meant, so I asked, "What about tomorrow?" "It's the trip to the park, silly!" I asked, "Who's going to the park?" with a sense of dread. I knew where she was going with this. "You and me, Daddy."

I started to explain, "I thought you knew I wasn't going on this trip, sweetie." She looked at me with a smile and said, "Are you joking again?" To be fair, I joke with my kids a lot; they've learned to be skeptical.

"No, I'm really not," I started, trying to think what I could say to ease the blow. As she looked at me, I could see the tears welling up in her eyes. I asked if I made her sad, and she looked away and said into her sandwich, "A little." She was trying to be brave and hide how it made her feel, but the way her voice broke simply killed me.

I've made her cry before, usually for getting upset at the way she and her brother sometimes fight, or for some mess or other that she was responsible for. But the disappointment I instilled upon her tonight crushed me to an extent that losing my cool in front of the kids hasn't before.

I think today was the day I made her grow up a little and start to realize that I'm just a regular person.

The Lunch Date and the Nearly Broken Promise

Two weeks ago, I used my lunch hour to drop off a too-large-for-the-bus art project at school and stayed to have lunch with Cassandra in the school cafeteria. I asked Alex what day in the next week he'd like me to have lunch with him, and we decided on Friday.

Last Friday, I was running errands over the lunch hour with absolutely no memory of making that lunch date until it hit me out of the blue. Unfortunately, I don't have a brain that alerts me before I'm going to miss something. No, my brain alarm goes off when "HOLY CRAP YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE SOMEWHERE ELSE RIGHT NOW". That's useful.

Sometimes that alarm means a mad dash (and questionable driving etiquette) to get somewhere only fifteen or twenty minutes late. In this case, though, that wasn't an option. The kids get only about half an hour to eat lunch before they're ushered outside, and I was across town. I probably wouldn't have even made it to the lunchroom before Alex went outside.

So I spent the rest of my afternoon feeling pathetic, and apologized to Alex when I got home that night. I had considered stopping at Subway to take home the cookie he was looking forward to sharing with me at lunch, but I knew that Friday dinners are usually eaten at restaurants with ice cream or shakes as dessert. It turned out just as well that I decided not to, since he had a special presentation in one of his classes that included a couple of snacks for the kids attending.

This Tuesday, I asked Alex which day I should come to lunch, and he said Wednesday. Part of me wondered if that was so that if I screwed up again, I'd have two more opportunities to try again.

I made a note on my Google calendar, put a Post-It note in my bag with my wallet and keys, and wrote a reminder on my cubicle white board. I couldn't blow this again.

Today when I got to school with my standard lunch-date bag of Subway, I waited for Alex's class to come downstairs for lunch. I had made sure to ask him this morning which set of stairs they use, and I wanted to be there plenty early so I wouldn't have to try to find him in the crowded cafeteria. Especially these days, when individual kids are obscured in a blurry sea of winter coats and hats.

Alex was second in line when his class came downstairs, and he was rubbing his eye. As I said hi and fell in step beside him, he leaned his head into my side in a way I understood to mean he was a little upset about something. I imagined it was something that hadn't gone his way this morning, or some interaction with a classmate had upset him. He wasn't crying, but I could tell something was bothering him enough to make him hold back the tears. I planned to ask him if he felt like talking about it as soon as we sat down, or if he wanted to wait until tonight so it wouldn't be in front of his classmates.

As we found our table, he told me what was bothering him: "I thought you weren't coming again." I felt like I been punched in the stomach; I had no idea that I was what he had been sad about.

Because I hadn't said specifically where I would meet him, he thought I'd be outside his room. I usually wait somewhere between their classrooms and the cafeteria, and I thought the foot of the stairs right in front of the cafeteria entrance made sense. So it was really just a simple misunderstanding, and one that didn't even last that long. It can't have been more than five minutes from getting their winter gear on and lining back up upstairs to the time they came down, but I can't imagine what he was thinking for those five minutes.

I know there will always be times when I make my children angry with me, whether it's for insisting they pick up their mess, help with a chore, turn off the TV, or finish their video game time. But I honestly didn't expect to cause them such disappointment. Not at this age, anyway. Perhaps when they're teenagers and realize I'm not Superman, but not now.

Even though today's lunch worked out and Alex seemed to get over things quickly enough, now I can't stop wondering what he was feeling last week as it dawned on him, "Daddy's really not coming today."

Parenting is hard. Especially when you're not Superman.

Salvaged from LiveJournal: November 27th, 2001

mood:  determined

music: TV: Saturday Night Live (Hans & Franz)

I've become quite the curmudgeon.

What scares me is how everything I'm reading about my impending fatherhood tells me how much behavior is learned through mimicry. I really don't want to be startled one day a few years down the road by how whiny and critical my child has become.

So when do I start being the person I want to be? Today wasn't a bad start. I was able to drive to the train station this morning and let people pass me at a rate of speed far too great for the road I was on, and all I said was "Wow, I hope she doesn't kill anyone." No expletives, no irrational desire to speed up and cut that person off and leap out of my car to give her a lesson in safe driving practices. I had a fairly crappy day at work, and I was still able to leave at 4:30 with a smile on my face. I stopped by the store to pick up some cat food and litter (input and output!) and I bought my wife a stuffed snowman- just because. Today was actually a good day.

"Live and let live" is a fairly common cliche, but I hope I can live that phrase. I've become far too judgmental. This is a big world, with vast diversity. Why would I think that I know what's best for everyone? I would much rather be the fellow with the bemused grin than the guy seething with frustration at every little thing.