The Crappiest Dad at Mother’s Morning Out

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My dad wasn’t always there. He was around and fatherly for my childhood but relatively absent for most of my teenage years. He regrets missing those irreplaceable moments of first dates and first cars, and we’ve reconciled since those vacant years but neither of us can get them back. I tell you that because I don’t want to have those regrets. I want to be there.

She’s 16-months-old now and says my name without the first letter, “Addy. Addy. All done.”

I opened my eyes to see my 16-month-old, Josie, standing in the doorway, still in her pink jammies, her hands wrapped around her empty sippy cup. I spoke my first words of the day, “All done? Come here, Love. Good morning to you.” I flipped the covers onto Kristy’s side and lifted Josie into the bed. I covered her with pillows and we cuddled. My breath was hideous, but she didn’t care. She giggled and wiggled, her red hair in a swirly mess.

I stood her upright letting her get her balance, and I went to brush my teeth, all to the close observation of Josie. While I showered Kristy and I reviewed our schedule: both of us working, Kristy half a day, needing me to pick Josie up from Mother’s Morning Out at 1pm. “No problem. I’m on it,” and I continued to shampoo.

I was looking forward to picking Josie up, arriving as the triumphant involved dad. She would look up from her semi-content playfulness and waddle towards me with joy. I would lift her high and spin her in the air. She would smile, and I would boast.

At church that morning I sat in a meeting until noon, sharing stories about what was going on in our congregation. As the meeting wrapped up I noticed the time: 12:03pm. I walked back to my office to burn thirty minutes before leaving to get my Josie. I sat down at my computer and began refining a sermon I was writing on the book of Galatians.

The ring jolted me away from the laser focus I’d unknowingly entered. I looked down at my cell phone. I didn’t recognize the number. Unusually, I picked it up, not sending it directly to voicemail, “Hello. This is Russ.”

“Is this Mr. Masterson?” A ladies voice I didn’t recognize, yet no other words were needed.

My stomach sank. My head whipped to the right to see the digital clock boldly proclaiming an awful number – 1:16PM. I was sixteen minutes late! Twenty-one minutes by the time I get there. One particular non-pastoral word shouted repeatedly inside my brain as my mouth began my sorrowful apology, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m on my way.”

I sprinted up the stairs, through the sanctuary, down the long front hallway, and into the parking deck. Safely buckled in my truck, I bounced over the speed bumps making a risky left onto Northside Parkway. I turned the air conditioner off for added acceleration and floored the gas pedal. I flipped my phone open and made the call, “I forgot to pick her up.”

“What?” Her voice was stern.

“I      forgot      to      pick      her      up.”

All business, Kristy replied, “Where are you now?”

“On my way. I feel horrible.”

Long silence. “You should.”

She was right, and mad. I told her I was sorry, and we hung up.

I didn’t even have a track record yet – this was my first pick-up. I could only imagine the thoughts the childcare workers were having about Josie’s workaholic, unloving father the pastor. And I didn’t want to be that dad, the one who worked while his daughter was forgotten. The one who forced his little girl to watch all the other children be picked up by their loving, responsible parents. I’ve learned, in routine Sunday morning pick-ups from the church nursery, Josie doesn’t have to be the first to be picked up, just not the last, and certainly not twenty-one minutes late. Because she will stand there, my precious one, unconcerned about all the toys in the room, looking up at the open top half of the Dutch door waiting for me to appear. And her sadness builds as every other child is handed over the barrier to a loving parent.

There was no escaping it I was the dad who had to crawl into the room broadcasting apologies and making promises, offering a smile to women who were thinking mean things. I pulled up to the curb and parked illegally outside of Trinity Presbyterian’s back entrance. Inside I found my little girl wearily pushing a stroller around. Her back was to me at first, and then she turned. Her face was frustrated and red. Her eyes were puffy and tired. Her hair was messy, as it gets when she’s exhausted and pulls her bow out. She began to shed more tears when she saw me walking towards her. She hurried my way weeping in relief, undoubtedly thinking one simple thought, “Where have you been?” I lifted her and held her close, feeling her sweaty head against my neck.

Kristy and I met in the parking lot soon after. I mumbled some reasons for my forgetfulness, and they went home to nap. I went back to work. I had another meeting as soon as I got back to my office, and I mentioned this mini-tragedy that continued to stick to me. My friend, Jonathan, in an attempt to cheer me up said, “Dude, last week I left, like, $60 of raw ground beef that I bought at Costco in my trunk for, like, three days.”

“Jonathan, that doesn’t help. That’s meat, not your child!”

“Good point. Well, a month back, you remember, I had my son for the day and I forgot to come to our weekly meeting.”

“Jonathan, that doesn’t help either. That was you forgetting work for your child, not forgetting your child for work.”

“Good point again. You’re right, this is much worse.” And then he laughed.

The rest of the afternoon I found myself daydreaming of scenarios where I could prove myself, my sure dependability, to the workers and to Kristy and to Josie. Perhaps a fire would be ravaging the child care area of Trinity Presbyterian and I, the lone father there early to pick up his darling, would heroically run into the flames to carry out the helpless children and workers. They would pile on my back, six, seven at a time as I bravely willed them to safety. I’d even make trips back into the danger to retrieve rocking chairs for the workers to sit in and blocks for the children to stack while outside. Everyone would want to hang a painting of me in the newly renovated children’s wing, but I would refuse.

I so desperately wanted to do something, anything other than admit the reality that I was that which I desired not to be. Everything in me wanted a list of duties I could accomplish and esteem as my trophies of good fatherhood. Then I would hold them up to these people who experienced my failure. I would even hold them up to God. But I was helpless, unable to redeem myself with any action or behavior, unable to earn the validation my heart craved. So I was left with the most daunting task of the day, worse than the call to my wife. I had to stop my prideful urge to prove myself and embrace I was the crappiest dad at Mother’s Morning Out.

I wasn’t perfect, yet not horrible – just human. I was forgetful and neglectful, even with my most prized priorities.

I think my lingering guilt came from thinking I was someone I’m not. I think the story Jesus tells in Luke 18 about the religious man and the sinner best communicates what I’m talking about. The self-righteous, religious man proudly approached God. He stood there, before God Almighty, and told God that he was grateful he was not like the other people, grateful he wasn’t like those horrible fathers who forget their daughters. He was prideful in himself, over his tithing and fasting and good behavior. Underneath this religious arrogance lied this easily-caught belief that you’re above things – certain people or particular acts.

The religious man was about his striving, his devotion, his dedication. As I sat at my desk that afternoon with this act of neglect sticking to me I realized I was like this man, wanting to perform my way into validation. But I had to accept I was the second man, a tax collector who stood at a distance. Broken. He didn’t attempt to strive or perform or create good behavior as to impress God or earn validation. He knew his place in life and didn’t assume entitlement or honor. He was who he was, an unworthy father who forgot his daughter.

In humility the tax collector didn’t dare look heavenward. He hunched over and begged for mercy. Jesus said that this man, not the religious one, went home justified. So he rose from his desk, walked up the stairs he earlier sprinted up, made his way through the sanctuary and the front hall and out into the parking deck to his truck.

I drove home from work that day to find a lively little girl in my kitchen waiting to dance with me.

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