I have a confession to make. I’m an awful dad. My two kids (one of each) will tell you otherwise but I know the truth. I’m awful. I work too much. My attendance at school events is spotty at best. I can never remember their friends’ names or whether and when I may have met their parents (never mind their names). I coach little league sports but a) only for my son and b) my overall win-loss record makes Jets fans feel good about themselves. I let them eat frozen food and drink Gatorade.
It’s bad. It’s just awful.
But I do have one thing going for me. I’m a Park Slope Dad. Now, you may hate on the Park Slope Dad (PSD). I get it. I have a complicated relationship with him, too. He (not me) has a four-story brownstone that he gut renovated. He has a job that pays way better than yours. He walks his kids to school – every day! He stops for a leisurely coffee with the Mommies at Connecticut Muffin and they think he’s just so cute and why can’t you be more like him. He ran the marathon so many times that he stopped doing it because it was no longer a challenge. He does fucking yoga. And he somehow spends an inordinate amount of business hours meandering about the neighborhood, while you’re making a permanent impression on your office chair. Okay, I hate him a little, too.
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