Single Dad Fail #36: The Game Face Slips

I wake up around 7 a.m. on Sunday morning.  A rare occurrence in itself, sleeping this late.  It feels luxurious.  It's chilly and gray outside, but I can hear birds, and pale sunlight is already starting to unravel the clouds.  It's all very nice.

I get my coffee going, bring the mug back into bed with me and read a few pages of my book before I hear the Mini-Pirate stirring in her room.  Stretch, yawn, sluggish footsteps into the bathroom.  Flush. When she comes out I can see through my open bedroom door as she looks at the kitchen clock and realizes that it's after 7, which for her means time for morning cartoons.  (Yes, even on Sundays.  Judge me later.)

 I call out to her:  "Hey.  Come here."

"I'm going to watch TV," she says, already heading into the living room.

"Come here first."

She pokes her head in.  "What?"

From my comfy spot in bed, I open my arms.  "Snuggle first."

She makes a face.  "I want to watch Phineas and Ferb."

"Phineas and Ferb are awesome," I agree.  "Morning snuggling first."

I wouldn't call Morning Snuggling a tradition with us on those weekends when my daughter is with me, here in my house.  It doesn't happen all the time.  But it happens fairly often, and I'm protective of it. She's ten, and it won't be long before snuggling with this kid will be a thing of the past.  She'll be in Middle School next year.  I will be lame, embarrassing, and annoying next year.

"Fine," she sighs.  "Three minutes of snuggling."

"Ten."

"What?!?  Four minutes."

"Eight."

"Back to three."

"Five Snuggle Minutes," I say, standing firm.

"Fine, she mutters, and gives me one of her best Eye Rolls.  She climbs into bed and lays on her side, impatient.  I throw an arm around her and we hang out like that for a few minutes.  I can hear her counting off 180 seconds in her head.

I ask her if she slept well, she says yes.  I ask if she had any dreams she can remember, and she says nope.

"Has it been three minutes yet?" she asks.

I remain placid, unfazed.  "You know, some kids don't get to watch TV at all on Sundays."

She shrugs.

"In fact," I point out,  "your Mom doesn't even have a TV.  You guys only watch streaming shows on the Internet over there, right?"

She nods.

"When you're with her on weekends, you don't watch nearly as much stuff, and it's not a big deal, is it?"

Where am I going with this?  I don't know.  Someone really ought to stop me.

I continue.  "So why is it so important to watch TV here?  Is it because you don't get as much at Mommy's, and you crave it more?  That would make sense.  Or is it--"

"It's different over there," she interrupts.

"Why?"

"Because Mommy has tons of great stuff at her house, and we do more cool things on the weekends.  It's just more fun being over there."

Thud.

The girl is ten.  She meant nothing malicious.  I'm the one who pushed the issue.  It's a nothing remark. And yet it's the kind of statement that makes a single parent die just a little bit on the inside.  For her, the statement is strictly off the cuff, brought on by sulkiness.  For me, the statement is an anvil dropped on my chest.  It's a sword-swipe that slices into me and exposes everything I'm doing wrong.

A good parent, of course, will acknowledge the innocuous nature of such a remark.  A good parent will remember that moments like these are textbook for kids whose parents are divorcing, even in the healthiest of scenarios.  A good parent will not feel wounded. What I'm saying is, a good parent will exercise patience and be understanding in such moments.

A good parent will not hear such a remark, weigh it for a second, and then remove his arm, sit up in bed, and say curtly, "Fine.  It's been three minutes.  Go watch TV." And then pick up his book, like a passive-aggressive asshole.

But unfortunately, this is exactly what I do.

After I abruptly give her clearance to leave and pretend to resume reading, she shifts around and I feel her looking at me.

"Sorry," she says, in the smallest voice she has.

My daughter now feels guilt that doesn't belong to her.  She thinks she's done something mean to me. This girl who has done absolutely nothing wrong, whose life was completely rearranged last year without her consent.  Who now has two homes, two rooms, two beds, instead of one.  Whose sense of comfort and security has been split into halves.  Who is coping with everything as best she can.

These are the moments when I feel the most, most awful.  When I let the situation get the best of me, when an opportunity to be a kind and aware parent presents itself, and I don't rise to meet it.  When my Good Dad game face slips and my daughter glimpses the petty, too-sensitive jerk beneath.  When I fail.

I put my book down, shift to pull her close, smooth out her hair, and I say, "You don't have to apologize. I'm not mad, and you didn't hurt my feelings.  Sorry I was grumpy just now."

It's a clumsy, pathetic attempt at a save.

She nods, and I tell her to scoot on out and watch Phineas and Ferb, and maybe I'll come out in a bit and join her.  Since Phineas and Ferb are, as we all know, awesome.

She hops off the bed and goes in.  The TV comes to life, and the big color-filled sounds of cartoons bounce through the house.  I sit in bed, listening, wondering what she's feeling.  Feeling horrible, myself.

Over the last year, countless people have been telling me that kids are resilient.  Kids do fine.  Kids are great in the face of hard times.  Kids bounce back!  Don't worry!  

Sorry, but I don't believe those people.  I think small moments like this one have hooks that dig into a kid's heart, and stay there.

I sit in bed and listen to Mini-P's cartoons, and count to 180.  Then I readjust my game face.  I get out of bed to go make us breakfast, wondering how many more moments like this I'll create, and regret.