There’s a fundamental contradiction in the core of a Dad’s job description.
1). I am supposed to assimilate you into our culture.
2). Our culture is sick.
This fundamental contradiction goes for the most part undetected because the mass of Dads are so successfully assimilated into our culture that they can’t see it for its sickness. Our disease insists we don’t have one.
But here’s our little secret. Nana & Grandpa failed with me. I’ve slipped through the cracks. And I don’t mean I’m some wacky Dad who likes to get down at Disneyland. You know who I’m talking about—all those idiots who act all fun & “childlike” while the others are looking. No. Kids, gather in close and listen: adulthood itself is a sham.
The moment we stop screaming about our vaginas, the game is over.
Careful now. There’s a kind of dance to it. If you don’t learn it well, you might go to prison or get fired or, worse, lose money. But there is a way. We can still dance in slow motion in the orange graveyard. We can knock down all the blocks and have candy for breakfast. And even though the city is burning—O there’s no doubt the thing is alive with fire—we’ll keep dancing. We still have ears for the music in the flames.
My little ones. Never, never, never mistake yourself for these literal people. I love you like the night loves its stars: Dad