By: Danny Evans
Danny Evans, the dad in Dad Gone Mad, once believed there was glory in fatherhood. He was wrong. There is no glory. But there is plenty of humor.
Danny offers is a colorful glimpse into bona fide, in-the-trenches fatherhood. With sharp wit and a healthy sense of self-deprecation, he plods through the havoc and collateral damage wrought by his two young children, The Champ and Barney’s Biggest Fan. And what does he call his wife? Hot Wife, of course.
2006 Best of Blogs winner for Best Daddy Blog. We’re happy to have him aboard in our “Ask a Dad” segment on HotMomsClub.com. You may send questions to him through [email][email protected][/email] (just use the heading ask Dad Gone Mad).
Julia’s third birthday happened to coincide with a rather striking change in her behavior. My sweet little baby girl had grown into a quite the diminutive little beeotch. She’d strut around the house with her hands on her hips and rage in her eyes and a staunch disdain for authority, the latter of which had Sharon and me teetering on the brink of telling her that if she didn’t shape up quicklike, Barney was going to sneak into her room at night and eat her guts with a rusty spork.
She used to be so loving and gentle towards us. She’d do what we asked. She’d cuddle. She’d mother her dolls so preciously, talking to them through her cute little tongue-thrust and her adorable penchant for pronouncing Ls and Rs like Ws, as in “wunchtime” or “wesbian.”
But those days are over. Now she’s mean and nasty, and she doesn’t listen well.
“Honey, can you please come to the table,” we say. “It’s dinnertime.”
“No,” she says. “And you can go fuck yourself, too.”
She screams and hits and lashes out like an enraged steroid case. We put her in time-out and she comes marching out with a smile on her face, as if to say, “Ha! I waff in the face of your attempts to discipwine me, for they are indeed waffable. Now wun and fetch me a fwoot woll-up.”
Sharon queried Julia’s teacher about this behavior. The teacher said she had seen the same things and that she believed it was a sign of strength. She said it was a positive attribute for a young girl because strong, assertive girls become strong, assertive women. To her I asked the following: do you think it’s a sign of strength when a three-year-old throws the remote control at her father’s head and screams,
“Daddy! Move your scwawny ass out of the way! I can’t see Cindewella!”
I moved (because I am scared of her). She then leaned back into the couch and starts twirling her ponytails again, but not before she muttered this under her breath: “I swear… So fucking wude…” I went into her room the morning of her birthday to give her a kiss.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” I said, grinning wildly.
“Hi, daddy,” she said, unimpressed. A pause, and then: “What did you get me?”
“For my birfday. Where are my pwesents?”
“Young lady,” I said, furrowing my brow and speaking as firmly as I could, “you keep talking to me like that and there will BE no presents. Is that understood?”
“Cut the cwap, dude,” she said. “Go get my pwesents.”
“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU’RE TALKING TO?!” (I’m yelling now, as evidenced by the caps.) “Don’t you DARE tell me to cut the cwap! I am the daddy and I will decide when – and IF – the cwap gets cut! Ya got that?!”
With that, she put her head in her hands and started to cry. It was the cry I remember from her sweeter days: a soft whimper, a slow stream of giant tears, an anguished expression.
My heart sank. I felt horrible. I can’t stand to see my little baby crying. And for a father to make his daughter cry on her birthday? They hang people for that in some countries. (China, I think. And possibly one of the Dakotas.)
I walked forward, got down on my knees and gave her a big “I’m sorry” squeeze. Then I whispered in her ear: “Stop crying, honey. I’m sorry I yelled. If I go get your birthday present, do you promise to stop crying?”
She stifled her tears for a moment, looked up at me with half a smile and shook her head yes. So I got up and walked toward The Secret Birthday Present Hiding Place (also known as Sharon’s closet). Just as I left her room, I heard her muttering to herself softly:
“Stupid old man. He falls for it every time.”
Danny offers us a colorful glimpse into bona fide, in-the-trenches fatherhood. With sharp wit and a healthy sense of self-deprecation, he plods through the havoc and collateral damage wrought by his two young children, The Champ and Barney’s Biggest Fan. And what does he call his wife? Hot Wife, of course.
2006 Best of Blogs winner for Best Daddy Blog.