Holding Forth

Published on December 22nd, 2014 | by Richard Black

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Having Me as a Father is Like Having Christmas Every Fucking Day. But Better.

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A picture of me. Before I had a child and learned how to shave and have since become a douschy vampire

It recently occurred to me that my family is pretty lucky to have me and not just because I’m a fantastically attractive man and all around great guy to be around.

Santa gets a lot of attention this time of year and that’s all well and good. He has his day and is beloved by children for it. I’m not anti-Christmas or anti-Santa. Saint Nick does a great job in his limited role and Jesus knocks it out of the park when it comes to the Holidays. I’m not saying that I’m better than Jesus by the way. That’s only for the ghost of John Lennon to decide. For the record I’m just saying that I’m better than Santa.

I get out more than once a day during the year for starters. I weigh less than an obese walrus as well and while it might be inconsiderate to point it out I’ll mention it anyway; yours truly doesn’t need a herd of reindeer to haul him out of the house. I also give gifts to all children regardless of creed at least I would if I had children of a different creed. I’m not saying that Santa is anti-Semitic by the way. I’m just pointing out an uncomfortable fact.

Sure Santa busts his ass but it’s only for 24 hours once every December. I make fucking magic happen every day, 365 days a year. Unless of course it’s a leap year. I need some time to rest and don’t have the luxury of doing so every Sunday like some people I could mention. Not that I’m judging.

The fact is that when Darcy is in bed and my wife has bonged her nightly box of Franzia I make shit happen and, I might add, without the use of slave labor. The girls go to sleep in the evening and wake up the next day to find lunches packed, dishes washed, toys put away and, occasionally, me passed out on the couch after I’ve spent an entire evening attempting to balance the checkbook.

I also manage to sweep, mop, scrub the toilets, plan meals and shop for groceries. Occasionally I even cook the meals I’ve planned and, when I don’t, I usually have the presence of mind to order a pizza, usually. I just realized that sounds a bit like I’m writing a dating profile.  For the record I’m not in the market. I love my wife but in the event that things go south in my marriage feel free to send me an email at unfitfather@theunfitfather.com.

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Santa doesn’t deliver presents to anyone with kids who have parents who can read this tablet

I’m also the de facto car service for the family and a PR firm to boot. I ferry my daughter Darcy to school, to play dates and birthday parties. I chat with all the moms about their children’s quirks. I feign an interest in their husband’s careers or pretend I care where they went to college. I attempt to ingratiate myself with Darcy’s friend’s parents and not just because I find them attractive. I chat up the homely ones too. They’re lovely people but I’ve already got enough friends. Two at last count and I’m not embarrassed to note that one of them is my wife.

I make a lot of sacrifices for the sake of my daughter’s happiness because that’s what parents do and feigning an interest in other people’s children is only the half of it. Does Santa make sacrifices? Sure he lives in a harsh and uncompromising climate and has an elevated risk of heart disease, diabetes and stroke but for the purposes of this piece I will say “No”. Santa never had to sit around at an ice cream social and talk to a gaggle of perimenopasusal women about yeast infections.

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Santa hit that shit

Santa is the deadbeat dad who pops up once a year to drop off a gift, grab a drink and a bite to eat before scooting off to the North Pole and leaving me to explain to my daughter why he doesn’t swing by more often.

“Santa has a heart condition sweetie and can only get off his ass once a year,”or “He just had his annual gastric bypass and needs some time to recover,” are phrases I’m tempted to say when my daughter asks why the old fat guy doesn’t come around more often.

I don’t say these things of course. I’m not a monster. Still I’d be lying if I weren’t just a little jealous of the adoration Santa receives from Darcy or the fact that I’d love a getaway in the North Pole where everyone is at my beck and call. It would be fun for a few weeks and as tempting as it would be to chase some super hot elves around the village for the next millennia or so I’d miss my daughter and my wife. I’d also miss my wife. The fact is that I wouldn’t trade all the easy elf tail in the world for the chance to be around both of them every day. Unless of course Superman’s Fortress of Solitude is close by…

 

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