I am a 37 year old Caucasian American male.
I am a creative professional, co-owner of a branding and design firm.
I am a husband.
I am a father.

I am no longer cool.

“I have to pee-pee!”
That familiar phrase bounced around the interior of our Suburban as I took the nearest exit.
Hoping to find a nice establishment, I sighed as I pulled into the only service station in sight – an absolute petroleum dive.
My wife looked at me saying without using words, “I’m am not taking the girls in there – it’s all you.”
I turned the vehicle off, adjusted my sunglasses in the mirror, and then set about loosening my two girls from their car seats.
Careful to not harmfully adjust my hair as I exited, I cradled my girls under my tanned and toned arms and stepped out onto the oil-stained parking lot.
I took steady strides toward the station doors, holding London and Mosely aloft to entertain them and to accentuate any muscular definition I could.
After yanking open the door, I scanned the room and internally established how much better I was than anyone in the entire establishment.
Making our way to the restroom door, I kicked it open and surveyed the scene – the restroom was a disaster.
With my girls wiggling to the ground, I found myself in hyper-attention mode – making sure my sweet little girls didn’t come into contact with anything foul.
With each child taking their turn on the toilet, my parental eyes kept track of little hands and tiny feet.
With sweat staining my shirt and my clothes disheveled, I washed their tiny and clinging hands and determined that they were relatively unscathed and unsoiled from the absolutely horrific bathroom.
I looked in the mirror and decided I looked cool enough to exit.
Walking back to the Suburban across the gray lot, I smiled thinking how we survived the scenario without incident.
With sweaty head high and my girls pressed tightly against me, I was unaware of the long train of toilet paper on my shoe that was dragging behind me.

That stuff would never happen to me.
That stuff was reserved for my dad – he wasn’t cool.
He was the guy that always did embarrassing things that made my friends laugh.
He was the guy that would have messy hair and a sweat-stained shirt.
He wasn’t cool.
Why?
Because life wasn’t about him anymore.
It was about my mom and about me.
So as I walked back to our Suburban that day, sweaty, a bit disheveled and cradling my treasures in my arms whilst dragging toilet paper behind me – I decided a few things:
I am a husband.
I am a father.
I am no longer cool – and that’s perfectly alright with me.

Happy Father’s Day.
Hug your dad if you are able and thank him for not being cool anymore.
Dads – are you still cool?
If not, was there a moment for you?

The other day I ventured into Wal-Mart, the store of America, to purchase some deodorant.  I think that for a guy, you should always strive to not have the cart.  I also believe that for a guy, you should avoid using straws to drink as well, but that is for another day.  So I find my brand, and then I see something else I think I need.  Then something else.  Then another item.  Before long, my arms are loaded to capacity and I am drawing attention to myself and my teetering load.  I begin to reconsider my choice of not getting the cart for the sake of cool.  Now my cool is blown as I struggle under the awkward weight of tuna, bananas, cereal, milk and of course…deodorant.  Maybe next time, I will just get the little basket.  Forget cool.