Why I'm A Very Bad Person

“Daddy, I’m angry at you!”

My dear daughter says these words with a fierceness that would seem impossible for a four year old.  But I almost don’t hear them.  I’m busy checking my watch.  It’s a couple minutes before my wife gets home.  The second tick by.

tick, tick, tick.

I’m wondering how long this tantrum will go on.

tick, tick, tick.

  

Not because I’m worried she will come home to a tantrum, or wonder how I've failed so miserably as a Dad.  No.  It is because part of me is not only wondering how long the tantrum will run, but actively rooting for it to go on. I'm not worried my wife will walk into a war zone; I'm afraid she won't.  Because I want my wife to not just hear about it from me, but to witness it; experience it.

I may have been recently named a Brilliant Dad. Given the potentially low bar, I suppose its possible I am.

But I am without a doubt a very, very bad person.

Not because I'm not paying attention to my daughter.  I'm well aware she is made at me.  I'm also all to well aware that she is angry because I won't let her paint my office walls just minutes before bedtime.  And I'm not actively prolonging the tantrum – I don’t think.  And I don’t do this to be mean to my wife – I’m sure.  But all the same: I do want her there.  I wish I could say it was in a fuzzy lovable "I need her support" type of way.  I guess it sort of is.

But mostly, it’s a “I want someone in this foxhole to experience this apocalyptic horror with me” sort of way.

I am, without a doubt, a very, very bad person.