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?

Dadisms.
Dadspeak.
Fatherisms.
You may be unfamiliar with those words, but you know the language.
It’s the stuff that only Dads say.

When your Dad is asked, by means of a general greeting, if he was doing okay:
Dadism:  “If I was doing any better, I’d have to take an ill pill.”

When you actually admit to having a headache:
Dadism:  “If I had a head like that, mine would hurt too.”

When your Dad sees you and your friends approaching:
Dadism:  “Uh-oh. Here comes a motley crew!”

When you are in 6th grade and your Dad is folding laundry and finds a pair of your Brut Fabrege bikini briefs:
Dadism:  “Hey Kev — where do you want me to put your panties?”

Did I miss any Dadisms?  There are more out there.  What did your Dad say?

I was browsing the toy aisle recently and I paused for a moment to check out the massive selection of Hot Wheels.  I like to buy one for my son every now and again so I wanted to find the coolest car.  Behind me were all of the toy guns where a very young boy was firing away with a blaze orange pistol.
The mom yanked the plastic piece from his tiny grip and said, (while glancing at me to make a connection)  “I ain’t gonna git you no gun!  Not ’til you know all about life an’ death (grinning at me)!  Then you can go kill a dove, a deer or whatever you want (still trying to connect)!  When we was young’ns, we didn’t git no gun ’til we was 8!”

…because at 8, you know all about life and death.

When I was a kid, my best friend Chris and I were always laughing.  We spent so much time together and most of that time was either preparing to laugh, laughing or recovering from laughing.  I learned the hard way that there are times you should not laugh.  I should have listened to my dad.
We were at McDonald’s.  My mom, my dad, Chris and I placed our orders.  Chris and I were causing a scene by taunting a Ronald McDonald statue that was gesturing to their current Happy Meal toys.  I am sure the toys were cool, because back in the day you could get good stuff like C4 or puppets.
Our meal was placed on a brown tray.  At that time, our burgers came in those environmentally friendly styrofoam clam shell cases.  They worked nicely for accommodating your burger on one side and your fries on the other.  They also worked nicely for still being around today in some landfill.  So we took our food to our table, Chris and I were still goofing around and then my dad said, “You boys need to simmer down or somebody is going to choke on their food.”
I laughed it off behind my straight face and then began to dig into my food.  Chris and I were flirting with disaster as everything became hilarious.  We almost broke into hysterics a few times but a cutting glance from my dad snuffed the fire.
The last thing I remember before being forever scarred was a long sip of Sprite.  As my mouth was filled to capacity, Chris let loose a zinger – then it happened.  I started to choke.  I tried to swallow and laugh at the same time, but that apparently is physiologically impossible.  I was choking and staring at my Big Mac nestled safely in its plastic nest.  Then — I vomited.  All over my burger and fries.  Thank goodness for those deep styrofoam clam shell cases.
My dad jumped up, smacked Chris in the head and in the same motion grabbed my arm.  He dragged me to the bathroom as onlookers were frozen mid-bite watching me go by — a very sad and gross little parade.
So let that be a lesson.  Listen to your dad — and don’t eat at McDonald’s on a regular basis.  It can’t be good for you.

One of the best things in the world:  finding a movie that your dad and mom made of you when you were a kid
One of the worst things in the world:  being a kid and finding a movie that your dad and mom made