Eight reasons why I hate being a father

One: I didn’t discover this “goldmine” in ‘98.

That’s when … um, forget it. I stumbled upon fatherhood; nobody prepped me.

When I contemplated fatherhood, it was with the warmth of a wet blanket, using my pals’ cracked experiences as my full-length dressing mirror. Had I known in ‘98 what I know now, I would have swum these seven seas years ago.

But there’s the issue of timing. God had to direct my footsteps, weaving me in and out of relationships, jobs, attitudes and places to teach me stuff, then cuing in these leading ladies when He knew I was absolutely ready.

Two: it will end much quicker than I would like. And “it” here means those very precious moments.

My daughter’s growing faster than you can say, “Tyson Gay”.

Sometimes I think she’s secretly wolfing down some stashed growth hormone. These “its” are shooting stars. If I blink, I miss them.

And if I have a glance, I should make my wishes, savour them or, better still, grab my camera and store the stills for posterity.

I thank God for Pudd’ng’s developmental milestones, although I miss the myriad innocent bloopers that made her bring our house down.

Three: Ratings, comparisons. Doing my parenting bit inside a glass bowl. Am I a good dad? A dud? Do we give him an F or … an axe?”

The jury is out, analysing my skills – or lack thereof – and pondering how much time I should get in the slammer for real or perceived misdemeanours.

It’s easy to feel like a deadbeat dad, particularly when Pudd’ng innocently yaps about the money her classmates’ parents are making.

She doesn’t say it in those exact words, but I know you feel me.

Four: worrying about what would happen to my girls if ill befalls me. At times I wonder what would become of them if God calls me home tomorrow, or if I become incapacitated and unable to provide and protect them.

I used to work for an organisation that cared for widows and orphans.

I know the hell that bereaved folks go through after their breadwinners die.

My first silent prayer?

That God removes insanity, agraphia, fair-weather friends and debilitating diseases at least five-score years away from my physical address.

Five: worrying if (God forbid!), my daughter will be the victim of some of the awful thorns that have stuck in my flesh for years.

Having been the victim of a child defiler, I know how it feels to live with a permanent dark cloud looming five inches above one’s head.

My second silent prayer? Never again, dear Lord. Not to any of your creation, whether she’s my loving daughter, or my worst enemy’s daughter.

Six: worrying if I’ll do something stupid and “diss” my babes. I’m someone’s someone now. The stakes are higher now. “Some of things I used to do I musn’t do now.” But let’s keep it real. I’m not a saint –yet.

There will be temptations to, say,cheat and become another MAD (men-are-dogs) statistic. Not disappointing my girls also means a no-no to domestic violence and – because to a child, dad’s the star – not being caught dead peeing against a wall like Wayne Rooney.

Whenever I see a slobbering drunk sprawled next to a gutter, I always imagine what he is doing to his poor kids.

That’s cheating your family of pride.

Seven: soaring above the high expectations I’ve placed on myself to do better than my father.

I’ve always told myself that I want to give my family stuff I didn’t enjoy.

Sometimes it gets frustrating, especially when a determined dad is moving heaven and earth, yet all doors are slammed in his face. Eight: the fear that Pudd’ng could get a brother who will treat her wrong. Chivalry begins at home.

There are no “apron ceilings” in our house. Gender lines are blurred as far as chores are concerned. Anyone can do anything.

Pudd’ng sees me mopping, doing the dishes, whipping up pancakes, the works.

I get it, though. Just like the rapture, this hook-up thing is in God’s hands.

I can only play my aces, hoping that the “house” will conspire with me and deal my dear similar cards; not worthless jokers.

Source: Daily Nation