So, yesterday, I attended a birthday party at my son’s paternal grandfather’s house. It wasn’t awkward at all, she thought, sarcastically. Well, my son comes up to me and asks if I had met, let’s call him Dave, “Dave’s girlfriend”. Why was my son calling his father Dave?
When we left, I asked my son, “So are you calling your father Dave now?” I figured maybe it was a prepubescent-trying-to-be-cool thing, but he replied, “No, but I don’t know what to call him so when I spoke to him I just said hey, (insert indistinguishable mutter here)”.
It was hard not to laugh a little, but truth is, I could see my son was having a real problem with this. What do you call the man who lives ten minutes away from you but pays you absolutely no attention unless his father invites you over? My son says he is not his dad, and is constantly asking me when I’m going to get him a real dad.
So, it’s my fault he doesn’t have a father, he says, and he shouldn’t have to call his father “Dad”.
What a pickle I am in. Haha.
Well, I told my son, to keep it simple and just call him “Dad” even if he doesn’t feel like that title is merited, which my son perceptively noticed it isn’t. I was like, “Just call him Dad. After all, you see the guy like once every four or five months, it doesn’t hurt anyone. Or call him whatever you want, I don’t want to force you. As for a ‘real’ father, you already have one: me. I’m your Mad or your Dom. Your Mad is amazeballs so you don’t need anyone else.”
Amazeballs led to giggles and conversation ended, but I’m anticipating a similar conversation years from now when my daughter asks why she’s never met her father. (I know what you’re thinking, I sure know how to pick’em. I thought I had it right the second time around but, no).
What a pickle I am in.
Stay tuned for your next slice of genius.