Who Will Do My Work for Me?

Where do dads get their superhuman powers? I'm a dad--I want mine!

Dan and I were discussing this at the party. Dads of our parents' generation seem capable of doing just about anything related to survival or daily living. Sure, my dad can't write a clear e-mail to save his life, but when my car isn't working he's the guy I describe the symptoms to. Granted, he worked in my grandfather's garage for most of his youth, but the same applies if I'm trying to fix any appliance, or build a fence, or move to a new house, or build a fire in the wildnerness, or construct a replica 19th century steam clipper, or anything.

You could argue that they are men of a generation in which more was done hands-on, that they were required to know more such things simply by the lives they had to lead. But they also possess a differing work ethic, at least from me, a sense of drive and duty which I shouldn't think could entirely be explained by a 50's upbringing. They live in a world where any possible job that needs doing comes before their own personal well-being and happiness, which is eminently admirable but not something I seem capable of most of the time.

I spent today lazing about, occasionally jumping down on the floor with the boys to break up fight number 2,463 over their new Matchbox tracks (their fights consist mainly of yelling at one another, thankfully, and haven't yet escalated to all-out beatings; hopefully by the time that happens, they'll be old enough for me to shrug and say, "Don't break any bones or you'll both get it") or to pretend to be a tiger, taking a few turns at baby bouncing, and the like. But mainly I moved slowly and ate leftover hot dogs. Now, there are at least five hundred things around this house that need doing, everything from picking up toys off the living room floor to priming and repainting the hallway to building a new parking deck. I made progress on approximately none of them. I know my dad would have completed six jobs and made preparation for three more while still spending the same amount of time with his children.

Where does that come from? Where do I sign up for a work ethic? I don't particularly want to inherit the ability to tell long-winded stories to store clerks and waitresses, or the drive to try to speak Spanish to anyone who has slightly tan skin, or to give vastly over-complex directions to any destination no matter how close, or the urge to give advice on even the simplest tasks ("Now you're going to want to keep your doors closed as you drive over here, and make sure that you use your headlights when it gets dark, you hear?"), but some of that dedication to doing the right thing and taking care of your responsibilities would be sorely welcome. I'd like the boys to have something they look up to me for besides my incredible good looks (which they'll likely inherit anyway), my endless charm, and my ability to weave massive, unrealized dreams and then complain about not achieving them. They deserve better.