This weekend, I was the best of dads, I was the worst of dads.
We hit up Edmonton for a little escape this weekend. It quickly went sideways when Zacharie started vomiting in the middle of the night. His flu bug kept him and my wife in the hotel room all weekend while Charlie and I wandered about.
I love spending time with the Chooch. We chased Pokemon, checked out the scenery, went to the Comic Expo, ate at cool hipster cafes, saw the legislature buildings, and had a wonderful father/son day in the city.
I felt like the best dad ever. Then came Sunday.
After a long drive back that featured a few misbehaving incidents from the back seat, my nerves were frayed when I finally hustled up a dinner and we all sat down to eat.
As is the case with kids, I had to ask three then four then fifteen times for them to stop giggling at the table and kicking each other. Finally I handed judgement and told Charlie to go to his room adding I wanted him to be by himself “with the ghosts that live upstairs.”
I can see that “Oh no you didn’t” look on your face through the computer. Except I did. They pushed me and I pushed back one step too far.
Charlie is 6. The mythology of Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and all the friends is still very real to him. He’s a sweet boy who spooks easily and, as you can expect, he didn’t like my suggestion that there were ghosts in his room. The usual tears that greets a banishing from the table turned in to a full scale frightened scream.
Epic dad fail.
This morning I woke up to more sobs as he told me of the nightmare he had where I didn’t want him and put him up for adoption.