by Jim Gaffigan
After breakfast, we try to see a local tourist attraction. I’ve taken my children to parks, fairs, and zoos all across the U.S. and Canada. I’ve taken my children to see Mount Rushmore. It wasn’t a big decision. We were in Rapid City, and it really came down to either seeing Mount Rushmore or doing nothing. Mount Rushmore is beautiful, even though my children were disappointed at the absence of rides. “Is that a slide?” “No, that’s Thomas Jefferson’s nose.” The Black Hills of South Dakota are breathtaking. They are sacred to the Lakota Indians, and out of respect, our government had someone carve four white guys’ faces into one of their mountains.
LAKOTA INDIAN: These hills are sacred to us.
CARVER: [Chiseling.] Yeah, yeah. I’ll be done in a couple of decades. These guys I’m carving were all about freedom. Especially the two who owned slaves.
After seeing a local sight, we usually head to the hotel pool. Every hotel we stay at must have a pool. For us, staying at a hotel with a pool is probably more important than staying at a hotel with beds. The hotel pools are really my kids’ favorite part of our bus trips. This is because young children love any kind of pool. Indoor, outdoor, aboveground, cesspool, it doesn’t matter. They may hate taking a bath, but they love a pool. It could be March, and a pool could be freezing, covered in leaves and bugs, and one of my children will beg, “Daddy, can we go in? Oh, please? Please!” I always tell them to ask their mother to put on her swimsuit.
You can usually tell a hotel has an indoor pool because the lobby will smell like a bucket of bleach. I’m always tempted to ask someone at the front desk, “Do you have an indoor pool, or did someone just clean up a murder scene? ’Cause my eyes are bleeding.” Swimming with my kids is really fun. It’s not really great for the unlucky business traveler at the pool who wanted to have a relaxing swim. When we have our five kids in the hotel pool, strangers always look at us like we are overzealous dog walkers. On more than one occasion, I’ve witnessed a business traveler enter the hotel swimming pool area, see our screaming, swimming children, and immediately turn around and walk out. They probably think there really is no difference between swimming in a pool with five little kids and swimming in a toilet. Swimming is really the first time a little kid can multitask. “I can play AND pee? This is amazing.” Let it be known I have no proof that any of my kids have peed in a pool, but other kids with worse parents probably do.
Whole family at Mt. Rushmore.
Our babysitter quit the day we got back to NYC.
For some reason the water is much warmer in this area.
After my children have ruined the pool, we all head back to the soon-to-be-ruined hotel room. I’ll head to the bus to get ready for that night’s show. Jeannie and the babysitter will bathe and feed the kids before putting them to sleep on the bus. Jeannie will then meet me at the show. I’ll do the show, and then Jeannie and I will head back to the bus to depart.
Why are we putting the kids to bed on the bus when we have a hotel room that we’ve already paid for? Actually in order to make these trips work, we often pay for two nights at a hotel and don’t sleep at that hotel. When you are driving overnight and arrive at a hotel at 8 a.m., you can’t check in until at least 3 p.m. So we have to pay for the hotel room the night before. To make matters more interesting, the hotel room that we’ve paid for the night before at which we’ve arrived at 8 a.m. requires that we check out at 3 p.m. But we have a show that night at 8 p.m., and at 11 p.m., we leave that city on the bus to get to the next city. Therefore, even though we are still not sleeping overnight at the hotel after the show, we must also pay for that night at the hotel. And that’s how you pay for two nights at a hotel and never sleep there. This word problem will continue until I can figure out a way to get a tour bus with a pool.
So after the show, we leave the hotel parking lot and drive off to the next campsite. A campsite without a tent, a fire, or bug spray. My favorite kind of campsite. One with Internet access and a shower.
Eskimo Pies
Every night before I get my one hour of sleep, I have the same thought: “Well, that’s a wrap on another day of acting like I know what I’m doing.” I wish I were exaggerating, but I’m not. Most of the time, I feel entirely unqualified to be a parent. I call these times being awake. I really do try to be a good dad. I mean “try,” because nothing about parenting has come naturally to me. Last summer, we had four children, and I noticed there were only three Eskimo pies left in the freezer for dessert. The first thought that came to me was, “Well, looks like I’m eating three Eskimo pies.” In spite of my lack of parental instincts, in the end I did the right thing. I only ate one. That way the four of them could split the last two evenly. How else are they going to learn math? Just trying to do my part.
There is no training camp for being a parent. No special school and no daddy doctorate degree. I try to learn by observing other people, but parenting just seems to come easier for them. My wife is no exception.
Jeannie makes parenting look so easy. Observing her mother our children is like watching rhythmic gymnastics. So smooth, so energetic, so smiley. I think mothers have an unfair advantage. They’ve had a nine-month head start on the bonding thing. The baby already knows the mother’s voice, heartbeat, and tempo. Of course, the baby will automatically like her better. It’s favoritism, really. Sure, men are encouraged to bond during pregnancy, but it always feels a little esoteric to me. Men are told to talk to the baby in utero via the mother’s lower abdomen. That’s not awkward at all. Especially when your six-year-old walks in with his friend. “Uh, why is your dad doing that?”
I feel like nature also cheated me in the nurturing department. I don’t even have breasts. Well, I kind of do, but not the kind a newborn or anyone else is interested in. Nurturing for a mother is instinctive. While breastfeeding, the mother is not just feeding the baby, she is nurturing the baby. From that time on, everything the mother does seems to have that added element of natural nurture. Meals, stories, laundry, and organizing their rooms have this nurturing element. They are not just doing “chores.” It is a natural instinct for the mother to make the child feel safe, protected, and comfortable. She is driven to do these things and actually wants to do these things. I can kind of relate because I have really strong natural instincts to eat cheese and take naps.
I think most men have to be instructed how to nurture a newborn. When our first child was born, I actually googled “Men bonding with a newborn.” I need instruction. Most men need to follow directions. That’s why men love the GPS system. It’s no mistake that the GPS voice is female. Men could really use a “Daddy GPS.”
GPS VOICE: In one-tenth of a minute, your toddler will bump his head on the coffee table. Prepare to show sympathy and caring … Recalculating!
Before you think this is a diatribe about the differences between men and women, I confess that it’s not just my gender that contributes to my ineptitude as a parent. I wish it was that easy to explain away. A lot of men have nurturing instincts that you don’t need breasts for, and they take shape by doing manly things with your kids. I can’t even relate to this. I am totally intimidated by other dads. I actually feel as though I’m missing some of the man genes. I don’t have a workbench or a toolbox. Hell, Home Depot commercials make me feel like a sissy. I don’t care about golf or cars. If I weren’t obsessed with football and steak I probably would have to turn in my testicles. I’ll never be inviting my son down to my woodshop so we can handcraft a go-cart together. Don’t they sell those things at Target, anyway? They probably deliver, too.
It’s not just in comparison to moms or other dads that I feel inferior; it’s to all other parents in general. To me, it seems like other parents are smarter, more organized, and more patient. Other parents remember that the napkin is as important an element to the ice-cream cone as the ice cream and the cone. Maybe even more important. Other parents remember to bring drinks to the park and towels to the beach. Not me. “Today we are going to let the sun dry you off. If you�
��re thirsty, head over to the water fountain the homeless guy is sleeping under.” Other parents seem calmer and filled with endless patience. I watch them in awe at the park. “Hunter, Mommy is not pleased with your behavior right now.” I always have to hold myself back from yelling at other people’s bratty kids, “Shut up, Hunter, or I’ll come over to your house and break all your toys! What kind of name is Hunter anyway? Good luck with that.” By the way, never try to discipline another parent’s kid unless you are a teacher or a lifeguard. You will only come off like a lunatic. Well, at least that’s what a friend told me.
I do have moments of hope. Just when I am positive that I am the least qualified parent out there, I will witness one of my calm friends with kids lose it and yell at their kids. I feel like I’ve won the lottery. Truth is, all parents snap. I’m sure even Deepak Chopra snapped at his kids. Seeing a friend raise their voice at their child should make me cringe, but it always gives me an enormous sense of relief.
I do try my best. All fathers do. Well, most of them do. Well, most don’t. But, let’s face it, the task is overwhelming. This is why most fathers have ridiculous hobbies like golf and ice fishing. Why would someone volunteer to wake up early on their day off to hit a tiny ball around a field while roasting in the hot sun or to sit on a frozen pond in the middle of winter unless it was easier than being an involved dad? I will always feel inadequate in comparison to the natural instincts of a mother, so it is much easier to do the manly thing and run away. Since I am anti-outdoors, when I run away, I watch football. I relate to the quarterback. Most of my life feels like I’m down a touchdown with forty-eight seconds left in the game. The odds are against me, but I still have to try, right?
You’re Going to Miss This
It seemed only yesterday Jeannie was having a baby. Of course, it was yesterday that Jeannie was having a baby, but what I’m saying is that they grow up fast. When I’m with all my little ones, people with grown or teenage children always tell me, “You’re going to miss this.” I have to assume they are talking about my children being young and not the conversation I’m having with them, because I am not going to miss people giving me advice about children.
From the moment the baby bump shows, strangers view it as an open invitation to give unsolicited advice about everything baby related: “Your wife shouldn’t be walking up stairs!” “Looks like your wife is having a boy.” Then, with the newborn: “Isn’t your baby hot?” “Isn’t your baby cold?” Or my favorite regarding the baby in a sling: “Can he breathe in there?” No, he can’t. And I plan to put you in here next.
Of course “You’re going to miss this” is not typical advice. It’s a confession from these parents with older children that they may have not taken enough time to appreciate the chaos. It is a sincere, generous confession. That’s why when people tell me, “You are going to miss this,” I always offer to let them take a trip down memory lane and come over and change some of Patrick’s diapers at 4 a.m. or tell my three-year-old the same Scooby-Doo story for five hours.
I get it. Well, I think I do. I know I will miss how small and cute my children are. I already miss how much lighter they were to carry to bed last month. I’ll miss my kids’ sincere excitement at wanting to see their daddy. Our fifteen-month-old, Michael, thinks I’m the greatest person on this planet. Granted, he’s only known me for fifteen months.
I’ll miss lying to them and actually getting away with it. I’ll miss being smarter than they is. I’ll miss the confiscated candy bowl in the cupboard. I’ll miss the access to kid food. Did you know you can’t go into Chuck E. Cheese’s without a kid? Where else except everywhere am I going to get horrible pizza?
I’ll miss being embarrassed by their behavior in places like grocery stores—“Don’t eat that!” Especially when they are eventually embarrassed by my behavior in grocery stores—“Dad, don’t eat that!” I suppose it’s ironic, after all the public toddler meltdowns, that my children will someday be embarrassed by me. I know it’s going to happen. I know every parent has to deal with it. Maybe even God had to deal with this:
JESUS: Dad, just drop me off at that manger and pick me up around Easter.
Of course, I don’t think I’m God, but I am a little godlike to my children. This is what I’m going to miss the most. Even though they don’t view me as the tyrant I’d hope to be, to them I’m all-powerful: I’m their creator and provider. They love me and kind of fear me. They want to be in my arms when they are scared. They want my forgiveness after they’ve done something wrong—“Daddy, are you happy at me?” They want to be with me. I know this won’t last. The expectations have been set too high. It’s only a matter of time before they are totally disappointed when I fall off that lofty pedestal and they realize I’m just a giant kid myself. It’s at that point I’ll run into some dad with a toddler gazing up at him in wonder, and I’ll say, “You’re going to miss this.” And he’ll say, “Hey, aren’t you the Hot Pocket guy?”
Additional Acknowledgments
Oh, good, you’re reading the additional acknowledgments. It’s important for me to thank the people who helped me give birth to this book. To me, for some reason, most acknowledgments in books read a little bit like a bland acceptance speech. “I’d like to thank my editor and other people with names.” I can always hear the author saying “Yeah, I wrote the book, and this other guy negotiated my deal, and this lady did something else.” This is not the case with Dad Is Fat.
Sometimes acknowledgment pages feel like an opportunity for the author to name-drop. Me and my dear friends Bono and Bishop Tutu always complain about people who do that.
I’d like to thank my manager, Alex Murray, and my book agent, Simon Green, who patiently waited two years for me to finally figure out what type of book I wanted to write about being a father. I’d also like to thank my editor, Suzanne O’Neill, her assistant Anna Thompson, and the gang at Crown Archetype, like Tina Constable, Mauro DiPreta, Meredith McGinnis, Tammy Blake, and Tommy Cabrera, who personally mailed three thousand autographed bookplates that looked amazingly similar to a “Hello My Name Is …” name tag.
Thanks to the many photographers who provided some of the great pictures, including Mindy Tucker, Kai Cheung, Corey Melton, and, of course, Monsignor Donald Sakano of St. Patrick’s Basilica.
Thanks to my children’s great babysitters and teachers, who helped us take care of our most precious possessions while we worked on the book, and to all of the great schools, Nazareth Nursery, Little Missionary, WCLA, Avenues, and Marymount, for being so understanding when we fogot to pick up a kid.
Many friends (Tom Shillue, Karen Bergreen, and Rob Hubbs) and family members (Felicia Noth, Dom Noth, and Joe Gaffigan) helped with insight and encouragement. I must also thank the other “Cincos” (parents of five children) in my life: Trey and Nora Fitzpatrick and Mitch and Chris Gaffigan, who provided invaluable insight about the impossible task of raising a basketball team; and Mike and Tracy Murphy, who made it look so damn easy. Of course, I need to thank Joe Jackson, the father of the Jackson 5, for proving you can look good being the father of five. Okay, the Jacksons had six kids. There was Janet. Wait, there was also La Toya. Forget Joe Jackson.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jim Gaffigan is a comedian, actor, writer, and former grocery store stock boy from Indiana. Mr. Gaffigan lived by himself for over thirteen years. He presently lives in a small two-bedroom apartment in New York City with his five young children and his more talented, much better-looking, and very fertile wife, Jeannie.
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