Dad Is Fat

by Jim Gaffigan

If you are reading this, I am probably dead. I would assume this because I can honestly foresee no other situation where you’d be interested in anything I’ve done. Right now, you are actually more interested in preventing me from doing things like working, sleeping, and smiling.

Thoughts on how likely it is that his children will read his book...

Well, since you’ve come into my life, you’ve been a constant source of entertainment while simultaneously driving me insane.

I “have children” like I “have male pattern baldness.” It is an incurable condition, and I have it. Symptoms include constant fatigue, inability to sleep, and, of course, extreme sleep disruption.

No matter how hard you try to be a good parent, you always know deep down that you could do more.

I used to have a lot of faith in humanity before the advent of the website “comment” section.

The tradition of letting the father “cut the cord” is such an obvious attempt to fabricate a reason for the father to even be there: “Let’s find something for this incompetent boob to do.” They present the duty of cutting the cord as if it’s a magic bonding ceremony. In reality, you’re just the dorky guy snipping the ribbon in front of a new building that you didn’t build. It’s ironic that the man whose virility caused this whole situation is now the most impotent person in the room.

The main responsibility for a parent of a toddler is to stop them from accidentally hurting or killing themselves. They are superclumsy. If you don’t believe me, watch a two-year-old girl attempt to walk up stairs in a long dress. It looks like a Carol Burnett sketch. Also, toddler judgment is horrible. They don’t have any. Put a twelve-month-old on a bed, and they will immediately try and crawl off headfirst like a lemming on a mindless migration mission. But the toddler mission is never mindless. They have two goals: find poison and find something to destroy.

Three-year-olds are just rude. They are still supercute, but now they are supercute and they know it. They have gotten supersmart, and they are not afraid to show it. It’s like living with a child emperor. They act really entitled, bossy, and outspoken. They think the world revolves around them. I realize I’m describing myself, but somehow it works better for a three-year-old.

Another endless form of questioning is under the “Are we there yet?” category. If you ever mention something fun that you are going to do with your young children, and there is any time that will elapse between the very moment you bring it up and when you are actually doing the fun thing, you will be barraged with questions during that entire time period.

Everyone knows you’re not supposed to argue or curse in front of young children. What you’ll learn is the only time a parent really needs to argue or curse is when they are with young children.

Our apartment may be small, but at least our children talk like they are on a helicopter. Maybe this is why grandparents eventually lose their hearing. It’s not age. It’s necessity. Why do you think grandparents love your children so much? It’s because they’re half deaf.

Now, the only thing harder than leaving Jeannie and the kids when I go out of town to do shows is getting my entire family to leave the house to do anything. It is probably easier to land a quadruple jump in ice-skating than to get my five children to depart our home in a timely manner.

When you have little kids, you can’t just say, “C’mon, let’s go!” and walk out the door. Nor can you say, “We’re leaving in five minutes!” and sit down and check e-mail. It will immediately become apparent that even if you’re taking them somewhere they want to go, your children will not move a muscle to do anything to get themselves ready. You must be an active participant in herding them out the door.

Anyone who has ever taken their babies and kids to a church, a temple, a mosque, a wedding, a funeral, or any other place of reverence understands the true meaning of torture. Obviously I am against torture, yet I still take my kids to church. The question remains, who am I really torturing? Am I torturing myself, because it’s virtually impossible to get a young child to sit still and listen to some old guy go on and on about metaphors they don’t understand? Am I torturing my children, because church is the opposite of a video game? Am I torturing the innocent churchgoers sitting around me trying to listen and being distracted by my kids climbing on the pews or playing peek-a-boo with them? The answer is “All of the Above.”

Also, if you take your kid to the bathroom at church one time, every time you take them to church, they will constantly tell you they have to go to the bathroom. They don’t need to go to the bathroom, they just need a break from church.

Also your mom and dad are crazy. They raised you, and you are a disaster! By letting them watch your kids, you are giving them free rein to replicate their mistakes.

Bedtime makes you realize how completely incapable you are of being in charge of another human being. My children act like they’ve never been to sleep before. “Bed? What’s that? No, I’m not doing that.” They never want to go to bed. This is another thing that I will never have in common with my children. Every morning when I wake up, my first thought is, “When can I come back here?” It’s the carrot that keeps me motivated. Sometimes going to bed feels like the highlight of my day.

I like to think of naps as a nonverbal way of saying to life, “I quit. I’m sitting this part of the day out.”

Remember when you went on vacation as a kid and you’d think to yourself, “Why is Dad always in a bad mood?” Well, now I understand. It’s amazing how much money it costs to be uncomfortable all day and listen to your children whine and complain.

It’s not just in comparison to moms or other dads that I feel inferior; it’s to all other parents in general. To me, it seems like other parents are smarter, more organized, and more patient. Other parents remember that the napkin is as important an element to the ice-cream cone as the ice cream and the cone. Maybe even more important. Other parents remember to bring drinks to the park and towels to the beach. Not me. “Today we are going to let the sun dry you off. If you’re thirsty, head over to the water fountain the homeless guy is sleeping under.” Other parents seem calmer and filled with endless patience. I watch them in awe at the park. “Hunter, Mommy is not pleased with your behavior right now.” I always have to hold myself back from yelling at other people’s bratty kids, “Shut up, Hunter, or I’ll come over to your house and break all your toys! What kind of name is Hunter anyway? Good luck with that.”

I am a little godlike to my children. This is what I’m going to miss the most. Even though they don’t view me as the tyrant I’d hope to be, to them I’m all-powerful: I’m their creator and provider. They love me and kind of fear me. They want to be in my arms when they are scared. They want my forgiveness after they’ve done something wrong—“Daddy, are you happy at me?” They want to be with me. I know this won’t last. The expectations have been set too high. It’s only a matter of time before they are totally disappointed when I fall off that lofty pedestal and they realize I’m just a giant kid myself.

Love this sentiment so much.