Robert Wilder - Daddy Needs a Drink: An Irreverent Look at Parenting from a Dad Who Truly Loves His Kids— Even When Theyre Driving Him Nuts

DADDY NEEDS A DRINK
A Delacorte Press Book / May 2006

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

Pussy first appeared in Salon.com, at http://www.Salon.com. An online version remains in the Salon archives. Reprinted with permission.

Things Are Heating Up first appeared in a somewhat different form in the Santa Fe Reporter.

Supply Me first appeared in a somewhat different form on NPRs Morning Edition.

Crying in America first appeared in a somewhat different form in Creative Nonfiction.

All rights reserved
Copyright 2005 by Robert Wilder

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wilder, Robert.

Daddy needs a drink : an irreverent look at parenting from a dad who truly loves his kidseven when theyre driving him nuts / Robert Wilder.

p. cm.

1. ParentingHumor. 2. Child rearingHumor. 3. FatherhoodHumor.

PN6231.P2 W55 2006

818/.602 22 2005054764

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-440-33606-8

v3.0_r1

Contents

For Lala, Poppy, and London

Hoarding Names

In terms of upbringing, my wife, Lala, and I led mirror lives as children. I grew up with three brothers in New York and Connecticut with my dad, while Lala was raised in Colorado and Wyoming with a trio of sisters and her mother. Even though weve known each other for fifteen years, there are still many things I do not understand about Lala or the female species in general. I believe some simple concepts can be taught to men, such as the length of the menstruation cycle or the appreciation of a closetful of narrow footwear; we can even learn to spot and compliment a recent haircut if given the proper training. However, some of the abstract and less forensic female notions still remain puzzling to me.

My wife has been nesting her whole life, even before she thought about having children. A folk artist by trade and by obsession, shes the kind of person who believes if a week goes by without rearranging furniture, youre halfway to the grave. When she was pregnant with our first child, the change-it-up home show occurred even more frequently than usual. Id come home from waiting tables at 2 A.M. to find Lala covered in paint and standing by a half-finished wall, a color swatch in each hand.

Do you like the Daredevil or the Blaze of Glory? shed ask, shoving the cards in my face.

They both look red to me, Id say.

Come on, really, shed plead, desperate for a way out of the latex corner shed painted herself into.

Truly, I cant tell the difference. Im not color-blind, yet shades of the same hue just dont move me in a decision-making direction the way a dinner menu does. My indifference toward interior decorating goes deeper even: I simply dont care. Its hard for Lala to believe, but for this caveman, if I dont trip on anything in my house and I have a place to sit thats not wet, I feel pretty good. Id rather have things put away and no dishes in the sink than Tiffany lampshades and a red velvet couch. Except for their lack of underwear that supports, I often envy those silly little Tibetan monks with their polished floors and black pillows. If they had cable and beer on tap, Id be hard-pressed not to pony up and join.

Lala is a determined creature, and now that a baby was on the way, the choices she offered me were no longer just about tinge and tincture. She stood on the second rung of our ladder, her brush moving across the ceiling in long strokes while her large belly kept her from getting to those hard-to-reach places. She knew better than to ask me for help, however, just as I knew better than to ask her to shout the football score to me while I was on the toilet.

What do you think of the name Hemingway? she called down.

Are you kidding? I asked.

No, why? She paused and faced me, resting her brush on the top rung.

Im an English teacher and a writer.

So?

What would you think of a math teacher with a kid named Hypotenuse or Pythagoras?

You overthink things. I like the sound of it. She craned her neck and eyed her handiwork above our heads. Hemingway Wilder. She sighed, hoping to gain my sympathy.

Whered you get that name anyway? I asked, slightly changing the subject.

She shrugged. From my list.

I then became enlightened on one of the strange behaviors of the Carroll sisters and, as I found out later, other women I have met. Starting at the age of pretend weddings with younger siblings or household pets, some women keep lists of names for their future children. Even though I grew up in a household where eating in your boxers was acceptable dinner dress, I knew that women had a distinct vision of their perfect wedding, complete with seating diagrams, fabric swatches, and guesses as to which bridesmaid would most likely go down on smelly Uncle Louie.

I had no idea that ever since she was running barefoot in her grandfathers silo Lala had been hoarding names. She had dozens for girls, fewer for boys (everyone knows boys names are harder, she informed me), and a handful that could fit either team or a very special sheepdog. When I was a kid, what people called me held virtually no importance, since all the Wilder boys had almost interchangeable names. The four of us have each others first names as middle names and vice versa. My parents had been unable to produce offspring for ten years and had almost given up until my older brother Rich was born. Since they thought hed be their last, my mom and dad named him after my mothers grandfather and father: Richard Edward. I popped out two years later, and I got my fathers part of the bargain: Robert (his father) Thomas (his grandfather). Out of exhaustion or distinct lack of imagination, my two younger brothers got stuck with a rearranging of what had already come before: Thomas Edward and Edward Robert Wilder. Sometimes I feel that such an inbred naming process makes us southern somehow by proxy.

Lala would ask me for my opinion on what we should call our child, and most of the time I felt neutral about the choices, not unlike when she showed me swatches labeled Weeping Sky and Dodger Blue. Even I grew bored with my own dull responses, so I took on a more proactive male role by trying to predict the nicknames or associations that might plague our offspring during their undoubtedly misspent youths-to-be.

I think Bea is cute, Lala said one day while she rolled Coca-Cola Red onto our antique refrigerator.

No way, I said. Id look at our daughter and think of Bea Arthur. That woman gave me nightmares.

How about Macaulay?

Besides being too Irish, it would remind me of Macaulay Culkin.

So?

I dont want my kid associated with that creepy child actor. Hes a bit too close to Michael Jackson. I read that M.J. has a photo of Macaulay in his bathroom. Gives a whole new meaning to Home Alone.

Jesus, nobody but you would think like that. She shook her hand disapprovingly at her academic egghead of a husband.

You never know.

Our daughters name wasnt even on Lalas list. Her mother, Beverly, had a dream that our first child would be a girl named Poppy. We thought Beverly had been working at Griers furniture store, a former mortuary, for far too long, and treated her whole idea as silly. When we did find a time and way to get pregnant, however, we jokingly referred to the embryo as Poppy, and it stuck. Every other nameAddison, Grayson, Kirkumall sounded too formal next to a fun floral forename. I even held back from sharing with Lala all the possible scenarios on the middle-school playgroundPop Goes the Weasel, Popcorn, Soda Pop, and far less pleasant things that pop for a girl during adolescence.