Monthly Archives: July 2015

Clothes Makes the Dad?

“Dad, why do you always wear nice clothes on a Saturday? I mean, you have on a nice shirt and stuff. To go to Costco.”

This was not a compliment. It was an indictment on my personal style. See, a while back I ran a men’s lifestyle website with a good friend of mine. Our whole shtick was that most guys don’t know or care about looking good and behaving well, but should. We gave it to them as guys, not fashion gurus or former models. Care because it makes a difference; because people notice; because you might get laid. Just Be Better Guys. And while I always cared about clothes, having the business meant I had to look the part, even on weekends. Sweats and t-shirts? Only if I am heading to the gym or lounging in the morning at the house. Jeans to work? Maybe 5 times a year, usually with a move or a holiday as the excuse. It drives my wife crazy, who is an acceptably dressed, business-causal modern woman, but thinks I’m nuts. If I wear a sports jacket to party or night out, it’s too much. Why get dressed up for a movie? It’s dark anyway.

Joyne Girls in Daddys ClothesI blame my mom. I couldn’t go out to a department store or downtown without a button-down shirt and long pants, at least. For several years after, I rebelled–horrible pants known as “action slacks” around the 1980s DMV (District, Maryland, and Virginia), baseball caps with the crowns pushed in. My dad cared, but only if it was church or a special event. As long as my shoes were polished and tie was tied, I was good. He did take offense to my desire to wear shiny maroon pants to a wedding. My older brother has a nickel in this dime, too. He’s always been a clotheshorse. This is a man who hasn’t owned a pair of jeans since the Reagan administration. He worked me into some semblance of an acceptable-looking male before I took it on from there.

My own style ranges from somewhat preppy to 60s jazz crooner. I love color and would rather be a bit over the top than too understated. I’m against Crocs, the over-proliferation of plaid flannel shirts as an urbane fashion statement, suits with sneakers, people who don’t own an iron, and too much starch in your shirts. I’m a big believer in season-appropriate gear, so regardless of what my wife says, I love white pants in the summer, draw the line at the full Cleveland.

My girls have now internalized this struggle between getting dressed and dressing up. One would wear dresses and patent leather Mary Janes every day; the other prefers sweats and her Nike running shoes over anything. Both love bright colors and but are really careful about making sure their clothes match–my wife used to yell “no match!” at her dad when she was a kid, so the girls get it honestly. They seem to like dad when I “look handsome” but just not to overdue it.  Which means no poplin suit for brunch on Sunday. And I had the perfect shirt for it, too.

“This is The Life We Chose,” or Your Birthday isn’t About You

Happy Birthday!There is screaming coming from the basement. Both my wife and the 8 year-old are irate with the process of undoing her cornrows. I can’t help, because the 5-year old and I are washing her hair. This has a 50/50 chance of ending in tears and we still have nail clipping to conduct, not to mention actually styling her hair, which she wants me to understand that I will have no part in doing. This is fine by me, but given my wife and oldest are 45 minutes into what will be a 2+ hour ordeal, I’m thinking I might have to jump in, which will ensure that there will be crying. This is far from the relaxing day I had in mind.

We, using the royal “we” here but I mean me, still need to get dinner prepared, since my wife and I are going out for the evening, and although it’s only 11 am, I can see that we are rapidly running out of time. The sitter, that is my mother, has to be picked up. We have to eat a preemptive celebratory meal a sing and “Happy Birthday” with her, my sister and her kids, whom will probably be running late, because it’s my birthday.

An hour prior, I was eating home-made buttermilk biscuits, marveling at the craft birthday cards from the girls, and modeling my new watch. We hadn’t made any firm plans for Sunday morning, but my wife and I discussed taking the girls out for a bicycle ride, maybe going to the Smithsonian Folklife Festival or just walking to a park for a bit. Our evening plans won’t start until 6 pm and, while I need to swing by and see my dad, it could be incorporated into the sitter/mom pickup (they live less than 5 miles apart). It was going to be a picturesque vision of a Dad’s birthday. Adoring family, loving parents, and an opportunity to be seen by people hither and yon, awash in that birthday glory.

Fast forward 2 hours, I’m in the kitchen frying chicken (because the girls like fried chicken and rarely get it) and roasting veggies. The 8 year-old walks past me crying, with ¾ of her hair free, but a painful looking ¼ still bound tightly to her skull. Her mother curses under her breath. The 5 year-old, reading the tea leaves, decides to do her own hair and makes a half-way decent bun. Initially, I offer assistant. But I still have to shower, visit my dad, pick up Grandma, rush through the birthday crap and get back in time for a 6 pm show. “The bun looks good,” I say and I keep moving. At this point, my alternate vision of maybe an hour to myself with a cigar on the porch while the ladies run an errand is shot to hell, too.

This is the life I chose, that my wife and I chose when we decided to have children. Their hair and grooming don’t care about our birthdays, nor  being “Easy like Sunday morning.”

After another tearful visit from the 8 year-old with accusations of sadism, the rest of the hair goes quickly—washing, conditioning, and braiding are done by 2 pm. It’s apparent that my wife won’t be joining us for the family expedition. In a moment of clarity, I texted my dad and my sister to move back our anticipated arrival time. The passable job the 5 year-old did with her hair has been lost to multiple bun/ponytail attempts and now it’s all about the Doc McStuffin headband containing the lion’s mane. It’s Sunday afternoon now, and we still have to hit the road. And no sooner than we get into the car, both girls fall asleep.