One of my favorite dad bloggers, Metrodad (a Strollerderby alum) crafted an elegant essay about childhood memories and parenting roles and how the two often combine into some form of trauma or another. (If you don't laugh your ass off at the description of riding a girl's bike in orange corduroys, just plug yourself back into the wall for a recharge.)
Of course, he goes deeper than humor and wonders: "At the end of the day, I guess none of us ever know how our parents impacted us or how we're going to impact our own kids. Whether it's the mom who runs the house or it's the dad who stays at home, do we ever know exactly how much we're influenced by each parent?"
It's a sentiment I think about almost daily, considering I take my own daughter on all manner of crazy outings -- from the salvage yard to the cartoon museum for a look at the Edward Gorey exhibits to the abandoned playgrounds others dare not venture. I frequently wonder whether she'll look back on these years I stayed home with her and think she's the better for it or just plain messed up. Like Metrodad, I wonder how I'll one day embarrass her with my own special brand of crazy and whether, someday, she will forgive me. You?
