Jeff Westover

The Tragedy of Being Right

It could only happen to me.

There I was—late at night in line at the grocery store—staring back at a clerk who looked at me strange. She had already scanned my usual items—the bread, milk, ice and diapers. But she hesitated when she got to my final two purchases. She picked them up, one in each hand and gave me a puzzled look. One hand held a box of feminine pads. The other held a pregnancy test.

“Are you confused?” she asked.

“No.” I explained. “I know exactly what I am doing. One is for my wife, the other for my daughter. I’ll let you guess who gets what.”

Being a father means being questioned all the time. And it is not merely a matter of defending yourself. It is more a matter of making sense of the nonsensical. Being a Dad means seeing what others cannot see for them selves. And sometimes that means enduring a little heat until eyes are fully opened.

~ Finger Nails ~

For example, the other day I got drilled at the dinner table over an issue that was plain as day to me – but lost on my two eldest daughters. Abby, my eight year-old daughter, was wearing bright pink finger nail polish. Her 14 year-old sister Aubree was wearing sparkly silver finger nail polish. We were eating pizza, so it was hard not to notice.

“Hey, Dad” Abby said. “The girls at school really liked my finger nails. Did you see them?”

Immediately, my guard went up. These are dangerous waters for any Dad. Obviously she was fishing for my attention and approval. But how could I let her know what I thought without hurting her feelings?

Sure enough, I blew it. Before too long it boiled down to this: I didn’t appreciate my girls wearing flashy fingernail polish outside of the house. And they didn’t appreciate Daddy being a fashion cop.

Naturally, the argument had far-reaching implications for all of us beyond just finger nail polish. Even my wife — who generally knows when to avoid a cat fight — got entangled in this tragedy. It became an all out assault on dear old Dad and a patriotic case for girl’s rights.

My girls could not see that in this day and age an innocent thing like finger nail polish could be perceived in the wrong way. In a day where gangs roam the schools and one color means something different than another, something as simple as finger nail polish becomes of concern to the old man.

Daddy is only looking where they cannot yet see.

~ Going Pro-Choice ~

Finger nail polish itself was not the issue. So when I declared that the choice to wear finger nail polish was completely up to them they were stunned. They cheered like they had won a big case over evil. Ding-dong, the witch is dead. There was no doubt what their choice would be.

But then I dropped a bomb.

“But if you go outside our house wearing outrageous colors,” I said, “you do so knowing that I do not approve of what you are doing. The choice is completely yours”. They had no answer to that. Both of them sat there slowly chewing pizza, digesting my words like an anchovy they swallowed on a bet.

I suppose they expected me to stomp around the house with heavy feet. Such is the thrill of victory when you win one over the old man. But I left it at that and dropped the issue entirely.

~ Chickens Come Home ~

The next morning, Abby decided to go to school without her flashy fingernails. My wife told me she pouted about it a little. But the thought of making Dad unhappy was more than she could stand. (Thank heaven for little girls.)

Aubree, on the other hand, decided to exercise her right to fingernail free agency. She even upped the ante by finding something more provocative. She defiantly flashed her new claws to everyone she saw – including me. I could only shake my head in disapproval as she went out the door.

But hours later, her tune had changed. I returned home later that night to find Aubree on the couch in her mother’s arms — in tears. Someone at school casually mentioned that her fingernail creation made her look like a tramp. And with that, Aubree came crashing down to earth. My disapproval over pizza had been fun for her. But the disapproval of her peers hurt in a way she did not anticipate. And at age 14, that is a tragedy of epic proportions.

The awful thing about being a Dad is that sometimes you are right. As I held Aubree that night I had a hard time discerning whether her tears were because she anticipated a big “I told you so” from me or because she just failed to heed my parental wisdom. Probably, it was a little of both. And no matter how you slice it, sometimes being right hurts too.