At times like this, my mind often wanders to the words of Woody Allen:
“Basically my wife was immature; I’d be at home relaxing in the bathtub, and she’d come in and sink my boats.”
In other words, I know that the following complaints aren’t the concerns of a mature man by any stretch of the imagination; nonetheless, I’ve got a problem that has fucked with me for a good five years, and it’s one I think other dads will relate to.
Now, I don’t want any credit for holding down a six figure income at a 60-hour-a-week job in New York City. That’s my responsibility.
I don’t want props for abandoning my artistic hopes and dreams to work my balls off and wait in 90-degree Subway stations every day. I know full well that art and “writing” are for jerkoffs who don’t care if their kids go to college. I’m comfortable with doing all my personal artistic work “on the side” (read: abandoning it completely.)
But if I’m sitting around on a Saturday, being a good parent and drawing pictures alongside my kids – the LEAST they could do is give me some breathing room, and not fuck with my drawing.
My youngest one is the biggest culprit – she is absolutely determined to make sure that I have NO artistic outlet in my life, and that every creation I attempt is sabotaged. It’s not enough that she’s destroyed my artistic life at a macro level – she needs to control every artistic instinct that still attempts to ooze from my defeated, blackened muse.
Lest you think otherwise, rest assured that I have NOT in any way set up a confrontational relationship with my daughter. I’ve done NOTHING to provoke her attitude.
I PRAISE her little doodles and pen scratches as if they were frigging Rembrandt etchings – I lavish her with admiration as I secretly analyze her scrawl to determine whether her complete incoherence and lack of artistic ability could be symptomatic of a larger, more serious disorder.
All I ask in return is that she not fuck with me. Let me have my 5 minutes – five minutes on a weekend to express myself in crayon – leave me to my own limited ability, and let me build and achieve what I can.
For example: Last weekend, I hooked up a DOPE Don Martin Fester Bestertester – shit used to be my trademark character in the nineties when I had a life. Somewhere in the Freedom Tunnels, one of these badboys still exists.
I was just putting the finishing touches on his glasses when she says, “Daddy I can help you!”
“Umm, why don’t you do your picture,” I coaxed, “Baby? See? You have one all of your own because you’re so big!”
“Noooo, daddy I help you color ok? I’ll help your picture!”
“No, come on baby, let me see you do your own- you’re so big!”
Then comes the turning point- my wife comes into the next room and starts rearranging papers and eavesdropping and shit – probably because she had detected that I was having a fun for more than five seconds.
She can hear us.
I’m not getting into this fucking argument, (read: I’m not admitting this shit to my wife) so I think of a compromise: I’ll allocate a small section of Fester Bestertester’s forehead, and my daughter can color that part in and help Daddy.
She may not be old enough to color within the lines, and I’d cut her some slack for that, but believe me: She knew exactly what the fuck she was doing when she went ape-shit and started stabbing my picture like it was a friend of Sharon Tate’s.
Just look at this shit:
The bottom line is that she’s jealous, and like all toy graffiti writers, she simply paints for beef.
Most dads would probably “grow up” – “snap out of it” – be “supportive.” FUCK that shit- isn’t it just as important that she learn about respect for other people’s creativity?
I’m her father, and the point is, she better recognize.
Fair is fair, and she needs to understand how the world works. What goes around comes around girl:
Is my wife supportive of this lesson? Do you even have to ask? Hell no; She has her head so far up her ass, that after I dissed the picture? She went and took it down off my daughter’s wall.