I think I've done a great job at being a parent. Well, except for that time I watched Jurassic Park with my son when he was 3 thinking I would be able to fast-forward through the people-eating scenes without him seeing them. Turns out I wasn't quick enough.
"T-REX EAT HIM UP DADDY! HE EAT HIM UP! YUM!"
All successes aside, there is an unrelenting pressure when it comes to being a father. I attribute this pressure to the socks. Those bloody socks. My wife bought me the socks for Father's Day. They have "World's #1 Dad!" emblazoned on them. When I wear them I feel like such a fraud. Sure, they may be comfortable but do you have any idea what having this shroud of deception hovering over you feels like?
World's #1 Dad? I'm not even in the Top 10 Dads in my suburb. I see those fathers on the weekend. Polo shirts immaculately ironed. Cargo shorts crisp and devoid of food stains. No breakfast cereal detritus entangled in their impeccable chest hair.
I see them, nonchalantly reading the weekend paper as their perfect little child cavorts on the playground. Meanwhile, I'm dressed like a hobo trying to stop one belligerent child from eating dirt and rocks while convincing the other one that you probably can't physically do a loop-the-loop on the swings without some sort of painful repercussion. I look at these fathers and they give me a fraternal smile but they don't know a thing
They don't have the socks, you see? Wait until they feel the pressure of the socks.