Fatherhood – The Misfit Farmer

Thomas is going through this phase–well, at least, I hope it’s a phase–we’re he communicates with the urgency and intensity of a drill sergeant. “Rise and shine, Dad, time to drop down and give me fifty pushups, plus turn on the TV so I can watch cartoons,” he yells into my eardrum while I try to swat him away with a pillow. Crazy thing is he never tries this early morning tactic on his mom’s side of the bed, in his mom’s ear, probably because she is such a deep and peaceful sleeper that she is incapable of awakening for anything quieter than a mild bomb blast. And if, by some small miracle, he did awaken her, she would just roll over and tell me to deal with it. It’s pretty much a tacit agreement we’ve made–my wife deals with scary sounds in the night that she thinks could be robbers and I think could be ghosts–and I deal with our son’s militaristic Saturday morning roll call.

Sometimes I think parenthood is basically 50% percent time spent wondering if you’re a good parent, 45% time spent wondering what you’re doing wrong, and 5% wondering if the hospital accidentally switched your child at birth. 

Natalie went to visit her dad this past weekend for Fathers’ Day, leaving Thomas and I behind to visit my parents. If it wasn’t for Thomas, my parents and I would still be trying to figure out where to eat dinner this past weekend. Thankfully, Thomas knows his own mind and chose Chili’s over the Mayflower Fish House, so half of his family tree, the indecisive half, didn’t starve and wither up due to indecision. 

However, Thomas’s decisiveness isn’t without its downsides, specifically when he commands the waitress, “Bring me my quesadilla now!” I’m pretty sure I heard an audible gasp arise from the surrounding tables; meanwhile, I just wanted to get under the table and hide. Who is this child? Not only did he vocalize an imperative sentence, which I’m pretty sure I wasn’t allowed to utter until I turned 21 (and even now I still feel awkward giving commands), but he vocalized it at the top of his lungs in a public setting. 

Don’t get wrong, in some ways, I’m glad Thomas is decisive and vocal, and I hope he doesn’t grow up quite as shy as I was, but at the same time, I don’t want the waitress spitting in our food. So Thomas and I had a “discussion” in the bathroom, which was mostly me pleading with him in a bathroom stall to behave and listen, to not besmirch the Bishop family name, all while threatening him with various punishments once we get home (you name them, we’ve tried them) that seem to have a five minute half-life for effectiveness, then he just goes right back to his preferred form of communication, which is loud imperative sentences. 

This phase has been going on for a few months/eons now, and to be honest, on several occasions it’s made me wonder if I’m doing something wrong as a Dad. It wasn’t until I picked Thomas up from preschool one day that I realized that barking commands seemed to be the preferred form of communication for the entire class. 

“Do they yell at each other all day long?” I asked his teacher. 

“Yes,” she  said, exasperatedly, “but Thomas is one of the quieter ones.”