That’s Mr. Daddy to you

Recently, I took the family to a popular new eatery on a Friday night. The kids were anxious to try it out. Apparently, so were kids from every other family within a ten-mile radius.

The lobby was more crowded than a post office on April 15th. With nary a parking space to be found, I dropped the family off at the door. One glance and I could tell my wife had no desire to ride shotgun as I hunted for a decent parking spot.

Now, you have to understand something: I was raised by a mother who believed finding a prime parking spot was one of her most important missions in life. On a par with cooking, in fact.

At the mall, she would drive up and down the aisles, over and over again, frequently by-passing open spaces on the fringes of the lot, until a spot opened up near the doors. And God save the soul of anyone who pulled into a spot that she had seen first.

One Sunday she offered to take me and a couple friends to a 1 p.m. movie at the mall. By the time we pulled into the “perfect” spot and raced into the theater, we had missed all the previews -- to the 3 p.m. showing.

Raised in such an environment, there was little chance I would develop rational parking habits. The only exception occurs during the pre-door-ding phase of new car ownership. While in this phase, I will park the car on the outer edges of every lot, regardless of the weather conditions or the pleas of my family. I’d rather shovel my way to the front door of a store than risk that first door-ding.

Consequently, nearly every first door-ding occurs in my own garage.

Don’t ask…

Now, if you’re thinking the subject of this column is neurotic parking habits, you’d be justified -- but wrong.

After finally securing a parking spot on this particular Friday night, I entered the restaurant and tracked down my family.

“How long’s the wait,” I asked.

“They told us forty-five minutes,” my wife replied, “but that was half an hour ago, so it shouldn’t be too much longer.”

Fifteen minutes later, I heard the hostess broadcast the following message over the restaurant loudspeaker:

“Table for Daddy. Table for Daddy.”

“That’s us,” announced my sons in unison. Followed immediately by “Personal jinx!”

“What’s us?” I asked them.

“Table for Daddy.”

“Table for Daddy?”

My wife then explained that the kids had volunteered to give our name to the hostess. She had told them to use one of our first names.

“Apparently, to them, your first name is ‘Daddy’.”

And that is the moment my identity officially changed from “Marc” to “Daddy.”

Of course, I’ve been a father for many years now, and I know I will never enjoy anything more.

But until that night at the restaurant, I had always sort of viewed myself as possessing a dual personality. There was Marc, the journalist, the lawyer, the writer -- a guy who loved his friends and family almost to a fault and was nearly as passionate about sports. Then there was Daddy, the human jungle gym, the coach, the disciplinarian and the pushover.

Now I realize that there would be no “Marc” without the “Daddy.” Being a parent lends a deeper meaning to everything else I do; indeed, the roles are so co-mingled and co-dependent, I don’t think there can be just “Marc” anymore. And, of course, I wouldn’t want it any other way.

So I hereby bid adieu to the person formerly known as just “Marc.” He was a good guy, generally upbeat and good-natured. Even if he did get a little neurotic when it came to parking the car.

(c) Marc L. Prey 2003
All rights reserved.