The Worst Dad of the Year
I stood there with the other dads. There weren’t many of us. Six. Maybe 8. All lined up like a row of sweaty Kindergartners after a rip roaring recess on the playground.
Though we hadn’t been playing freeze tag or foursquare or jump rope.
We were sweating through our button downs mostly out of fear and anxiety.
Usually guys are excited to win a prize. Put the trophy on the mantle. Hang the medal on the old rear view mirror. Frame the certificate and display it loud and proud on the family room wall.
Not today. No excitement. No anticipation. Mostly just shame.
I whispered a desperate prayer as we took our chairs in eerily perfect unison.
“Please don’t let it be me! Please don’t let it be me! Please! Please! Please!”
None of us actually knew who else was up for the less than prestigious prize. We were too ashamed to look the others in the eye. But at least we knew we weren’t alone. Not yet.
One of us would hear our name (Please not me!!) and be selected, releasing a symphony of relieved sighs from the other finalists, forever grateful to not be the one to that had to drag themselves to the stage to receive the “award”.
Ha!! Some award!! “Congratulations! You are the worst dad on the planet. Were you aware Kim Jong Un has children? Don’t see him around tonight. So sorry. That means…well, I don’t have to explain what that means, right?”
Gulp!
A worse than an evil dictator? Are you serious?
All the times I had missed the mark as a dad streamed across my mind reminding me of my consistent failures.
Did I tuck my kids into bed last night? Or did I shoo them off like a bunch of unkempt ragamuffins? My little guy has been begging to go fishing for weeks. Or had it been months? I can’t remember.
I swiped a bead of sweat off of my forehead.
I still haven’t fixed that flat bike tire. The duck tape on the bunk bed came loose again. I need to figure out how to repair it. I totally forgot about her recital and was 15 minutes late.
On and on my mind cycled through a long list of dad failures. So many. Ugh!
Heavy with guilt and shame, I sunk lower and lower into my chair.
Why didn’t they just announce the award already? How come this is taking so long? Just read my name so I can be embarrassed and move on.
Up on the stage some three piece orchestra began playing a number that sounded like a mash up of the Village People’s ‘Macho Man’ and Fur Elise. What in the world??
Right knee bouncing like mad, I ratcheted up the courage to steal a glance at the Dad to my left. But just a glance. Maybe he is as anxious as I am. Perhaps we can support each other. Maybe start a group.
He was wearing a long sleeve button down blue checked shirt that looked strangely similar to mine. Dude has good taste, I thought. A little weird though.
Wonder if? No. That would be more than just weird. That would be bananas.
I took a quick peek at his pants half expecting to see…no way. Dark blue casual pants with a crease that could slice right through butter. Just like mine.
Dude has really good taste. It’s not bananas. We just like similar clothes.
Wonder what kind of shoes…
Light applause interrupted my thoughts as the band finished their terrible cross genre musical mash up.
Quickly my mind darted back to my neighbor’s shoes.
I bent forward slightly to see if he, perhaps, just maybe, he was donning light brown leather slip ons…but I couldn’t see anything. His feet were neatly tucked under his chair, hidden from my peering eyes…just like mine always were. Just like mine were right now.
My heart skipped a beat and I realized I had been holding my breath.
For a moment I forgot about the prize, the shame, the embarrassment of being nominated as the Worst Dad of the Year (wonder if my kids nominated me??), and could only think of this copy cat next to me!! My shirt, my pants, my posture, and possibly my shoes! Who was this guy?
“Ladies and Gentlemen! The moment you have all been waiting for…”
The stuffy announcement from the podium quickly flung my thoughts back to the award.
The praying resumed.
“Please don’t let it be me! Please don’t let it be me! Please! Please! Please!”
“…will be coming soon. But not yet!”
A collective groan spread across the auditorium. I wasn’t the only one who wanted to get this over with.
“First, we will hear from a world renowned poet and performer who…”
Granted at least a few moments of reprieve, my head went back to the copy cat Dad next to me. I stole a glance down, double checking my own clothes.
Yup. All the same.
So weird.
What about the dad on the other side of me? Is he wearing…? Surely not.
I took a quick look.
Oh no. You’ve got to be kidding me. Is this some kind of weird joke?
He was wearing the same clothes AND the same shoes. His legs were stretched straight out in front of him, his brown leather slip ons were in plain sight.
At least his feet weren’t tucked…
As if on cue, to taunt me, tease me, torment me, he slowly crossed his ankles and drew his leather loafered feet toward him and tucked them snugly beneath his chair.
Take a breath, Josh. A deeper breath. Relax. Slow the heart down a bit. This is nothing unusual. It’s not so far fetched for three guys to be dressed the same, right? Right!??!?
Of course, right.
Weak clapping filled the room as the poet left the stage. My hands joining the courtesy applause all of their own accord.
From the Dad on my right and Dad on my left, the same halfhearted clap in unison with my now shaking hands.
Actually, all the finalists clapped in the same distracted, low energy, obligatory drone. In unison and uninterested.
Just like I was.
Unable to resist any longer, I looked down the row to my left and then down the row to my right.
I squeezed my eyes shut, no wanting to process what I saw.
Blue and white checked shirts, finely creased casual blue pants, brown leather shoes.
Every single finalist was dressed exactly the same…just like me.
Left knees bouncing…chests heaving…hands wringing…
Just like me.
I was the only finalist. Or every finalist was me.
There was no escape. I would be awarded “The Worst Dad of the Year” award.
I would win the infamous prize as I was the only nominee.
They were me and I was them. We were all the same…me!!!
We slunk even lower in our chairs.
We were defeated.
We had won. We had lost.
The “Worst Dad of the Year” award was ours…or mine.
Me was we. We were me. And I was the loser.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I hold in my hand the envelope with the lucky winner of our prestigious worst dad of the year award,” came the voice from the stage.
I no longer cared. Head drooping low, eyes stinging, throat a painful lump.
Go ahead, read our name. We all thought.
The auditorium was silent except for the rustling of the envelope as it was opened.
“And the winner is…La La Land.”
Huh?
“Only kidding, folks. Only kidding. Let me open the card.”
What a jokester.
“The winner is…the winner is…”
He flipped the card over and back. Looking at all sides.
“There must be some mistake. This card is blank.”
My head shot up. I looked at me on my left. I looked at me on my right.
Blank? No winner? We didn’t win? No one won?
A slight smirk spread across our face.
“It appears there won’t be a worst dad of the year award given out this year. Such a shame. We had such wonderful nominees.”
I kept looking at me in disbelief.
And then realized, I didn’t belong here. I may have a lot I need to improve when it comes to being a dad. But I am not the World’s Worst Dad.
The entire row of Josh’s rushed for the exit. Understanding ourselves a little better. We may not be the best, but we certainly aren’t the worst. And…we can be better. We can improve. All is not lost.
I burst out the door feeling free and determined to be a better dad. My mind now rushing with ideas of how to better love my kids. Plan that fishing trip. Fix the bunk bed. No, buy a new bunk bed. That’s better. Keep a calendar of important dates. I’ll put them in my phone. That’s what I’ll do!!!
Ha! I can do this. I can be a better dad!
Excited and filled with joy, I burst out the exit and into the bright afternoon sun.
Blinded with excitement, I didn’t see the stout little man with a strange haircut rushing toward the door. I plowed right into him.
‘I’m sorry, sir. Iā¦”
He shoved past me and shuffled toward the door.
I couldn’t believe it. It was Kim Jong Un himself.
Then again, it was totally believable.
“There are several open seats right in the front row.” I called out to him. “Best seats in the house. All yours.”
He turned for a moment, cast an annoyed look my way, then disappeared inside the darkness of the auditorium.
Well, maybe the worst dad of the year award will be given out tonight after all.
But not to this dad.