Dad Is Fat (5 page)

Smiling through the guilt
.

I’m told many young children view their dad as a superhero. Someone brave and strong who will protect them from bad guys
and is able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Not me. I will always remember my dad in the mythical proportions normally reserved for professional wrestlers. Like those cartoonish champions of the ring, all my dad’s habits and mannerisms seemed exaggerated for my amazement, entertainment, and frustration. He’d enter the room with a cloud of intimidation that rivaled André the Giant stepping onto the canvas. To this day, an abrupt silencing cough scares the hell out of me. I feared him. His temper. My father’s size was not overwhelming, but his presence was enormous. He could shake a room with a never-ending pause. He could cut my knees out with his evil eye. I could feel the vibrations from him walking on those heavy heels, smell his cigarette in the air, and suddenly fear would fill my stomach. My siblings feared my dad.
Everyone
feared my dad. I remember my one friend deciding if he should come over based on whether or not my father was home. My dad once shot a man for snoring! Okay, he didn’t, but to the sixteen-year-old me, he was the type of person who would have if he lived in the Wild West and had a gun and someone was snoring or breathing near him.

My dad was not mean. He was controlling and demanding. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was not above enlisting my friends into the family yard work detail. He certainly did not tolerate moping.

My father never really understood technology. As an adult, if I wasn’t home when he called, he would leave the same message on my answering machine.

I always wanted to call him back and say, “Yeah, Dad, my answering machine told me you called. Then the toaster told me I was hungry.”

The fatigue of being the father of six set in by the time I was a teenager. The night before I went to college, my dad sat me down.

Of course, that’s not what I said. That is what I thought, but I didn’t want to get verbally body slammed. My dad could be warm and generous, but he always seemed to be treating people to things they didn’t necessarily want: “[
Cough
.] Tomorrow we are going to get up at five a.m. and sit on a boat for twelve hours in the blistering heat until your head turns a bright beet-red. Happy birthday!”

Every year for our birthday, our dad would take us out to dinner. We could pick any restaurant in town, and he would take us there. Any restaurant at all, as long as it was Giovanni’s,
my father’s favorite restaurant. Every year, it seemed like the same conversation.

Hours later, we would be in the car, my parents seated in the front, with me in the back. My dad would look at me in the rearview mirror.

I would get frustrated and occasionally challenge my dad, but I always lived in fear. I remember my mother telling me, “You’re never going to change him.” To my mother and siblings, challenging my father was a pointless, losing battle. Why kick the hornet’s nest? Why risk getting him mad? After all, he would shoot a man for snoring.

My mother and father died many years ago. Thanks for
bringing it up. Time has turned my mother into something of a saint in my memory. Mostly because she stayed married to my dad. Actually she really was an amazing mother. Time has also softened my view of my father, but somehow I still fear him. The clink of ice in a glass or the smell of cigarettes still makes me stand a little straighter.

My dad, my brothers, and I out celebrating after my dad shot a man for snoring
.

It’s actually unfair to characterize my father, or anyone for that matter, by only their dark side. I certainly wouldn’t want to be described by only the stupid and buffoonish things I’ve done. I’m sure I have my own Giovanni’s. As a teenager,
I did view my father as this brutish, selfish, controlling Hulk Hogan, but now I see a bigger picture. My dad was a strict but compassionate man who cared deeply about his family, coworkers, and community. My dad never left my mother’s side for an entire year as she lost her battle with ovarian cancer. I loved my father. Most people did. He did try his best. He did provide for his family. He taught me many things and gave me a work ethic that made me who I am today: a guy who would throw his own father under the bus in a book about parenting.

I’m probably a comedian because of my father. I loved making my mother laugh, but the impression of my father I did for my siblings changed the trajectory of my life. When I lampooned the feared dictator of our lives, I had my sisters’ and brothers’ attention and respect. For a moment I wasn’t simply the youngest or just another competitor for food. I was an equal. It was very empowering. I liked the feeling.

By today’s standards, my dad wouldn’t be considered the greatest dad, and I’m sure his dad wouldn’t be considered the greatest dad either. I’m sure my grandfather’s dad would be considered an even worse dad. It probably goes all the way back to cavemen fathers just eating their children. What I’m trying to say is, dads are getting better. Either that or we are all slowly being turned into women. At least that’s what my gynecologist thinks.

Getting married and becoming the father of young children has taught me that I am a narcissist. The good news is that I am a really great, really important, and really special narcissist. I lived my life as a single man, and even for a few years into parenthood, just looking out for number one. If I picked up my mail, went in my apartment, and saw there was a letter for a neighbor, I’d think, “Looks like they’re never getting this. It would take way too much energy to go back outside. Besides, right now I have to watch some
Wheel of Fortune
.”

My perceived needs were all-important. When it came to my career, relationship, or taking the last piece of pizza, I was only thinking about myself. And, of course, the pizza. My stand-up act was established on a lazy, gluttonous, selfish point of view and, based on my success, people identified. Turns out everyone is a closet narcissist. Except you, of course. You’re perfect. Keep reading.

Unfortunately, these narcissistic traits that made me a popular comedian do not work well for someone who truly desires to be a good husband or parent. I’m not saying parenting cured my narcissism, but it changed me and continues to change me every day. I am now a teeny tiny bit less of a narcissist. Being a parent is a selfless adventure. The worldview of “Take care of yourself first” is no longer logical to a sane person if your baby wakes up hungry in the middle of the night. You can’t be like, “What’s that? The baby is starving? Eh, forget her, I’ve got to get some sleep.” For me, parenting was literally a wake-up call from my own simple selfishness. In other words, I’m not
quite
as horrible as I used to be. Raising kids may be a thankless job with ridiculous hours, but at least the pay sucks.

One would think it would be impossible to raise a child and remain a narcissist. That is completely untrue, and I am living proof. There are even some people whose narcissism is what motivates them to have children. This is an easy trap to fall into. We all harbor a secret desire to produce a child that is an extension of ourselves … especially me, because most bald, pudgy, newborn babies look exactly like me, but a little less adorable.

Of course, babies and toddlers are all narcissists. But they are
supposed
to believe the whole world revolves around them. It’s part of their natural development and a bunch of other stuff Freud said that I am too dumb to explain. One thing I do know: it doesn’t work to have two narcissists competing against each other in a parent/child relationship. If you don’t believe me, just try to convince a three-year-old to give you the last cookie. There is a lot of screaming and crying, and the kid gets a little upset, too. It’s a daily struggle.

So now that I’ve admitted that I’m a narcissist, I’d also like to admit that I’m probably not the greatest parent. The last thing I want is one of my kids reading this book in ten years and thinking, “That guy thought he was a good parent?” I don’t know why my children would refer to me as “that guy,” but I’m keeping my expectations low. I’m probably not the best parent, but I am trying. I’ll complain and joke about parenting and kids, but every parent knows it’s a heroic endeavor, and we participants need to laugh at it. After all, suicide is off the table now.

I am undeniably lucky to have married a woman like Jeannie. She is energetic, hardworking, and takes incredible care of the kids and me. However, during our marriage there have been periods when she has become rather lazy. Jeannie describes these periods as “pregnancy.” My view has always been, pregnant or not, that does not mean she can’t move some cinder blocks. We are a team, and I have to take a second nap today.

Of course, pregnant women are not lazy. In fact, they are the opposite of lazy. Whatever they are doing, they are also always growing a baby. Even when they are sleeping, they are growing a baby. They are constantly multitasking. I’m often not even tasking.

This is because women are amazing. And I mean that in a very pandering way. (I’ve been told more women than men buy and read books, so there is your shout-out, ladies.) But truly, women are amazing. Think about it this way: a woman
can grow a baby inside her body. Then a woman can deliver the baby through her body. Then, by some miracle, a woman can feed a baby with her body. When you compare that to the male’s contribution to life, it’s kind of embarrassing, really. The father is always like, “Hey, I helped, too. For like five seconds. Doing the one thing I think about twenty-four hours a day. Well, enjoy your morning sickness—I’m going to eat this chili. Mmmm, smell those onions.” You can’t eat chili in front of a pregnant woman. Sometimes you can’t cough, snore, or breathe around a pregnant woman. Most important, you can’t complain around a pregnant woman. I know that because I’ve lived with one for eight years. Every one of the man’s problems is insignificant on a relative basis.

Witnessing Jeannie give birth to five healthy babies has taught me many things, but mostly that I could never have a baby. Granted, I don’t have a uterus. But even if I did have a uterus, I don’t think I could do any of it. If men had the baby, our species would be long extinct. That’s why females always have the babies. Except in the seahorse world: supposedly the
male seahorse has the baby. I don’t understand why they didn’t just call that the female seahorse. It was probably some stubborn scientist’s fault.