×
×
homepage logo
LOGIN
SUBSCRIBE

Failing upward and onward: I take a certain pride in never having screwed up the same way twice

By Paul Wartaug - Guest Columnist | Feb 13, 2021

Loki: If you’re going to Earth, you might want a guide. I do have a bit of experience in that arena.

Thanos: Well, if you consider failure experience.

Loki: I consider experience, experience.

Like Loki, played by Professional Handsome Talking Man Tom Hiddleston, failure is something I know a little bit about. Not to brag, but I’ve failed at most things I’ve set my mind to. I literally cannot count the number of math classes I’ve failed. I had to retake my driving exam, both written and practical, eleventeen times. Each.

I feel that’s important to establish, so when you drink in my wisdom, you know it came from when I suckled at the teat of complete failure.

Having lived long and loud enough to make my parents ashamed many, many times over, I take a certain pride in never having screwed up the same way twice. In that way, I am like lightning, another absolute force of nature. I can say with absolute certainty that central to my greatest failures has been my daughter, Garfunkel.

To be clear: This is not to suggest she herself is in any way a failure. I assure you, she is destined for greatness. It was foretold by the spookiest widow in my village. This is to say my greatest failures have been in my efforts as a father.

I take no joy in telling you that the list of my sins is extensive.

I once dropped Garfunkel off at daycare wearing stripes and patterns. I wasn’t able to look any of the employees in the eye for weeks after that. Of course, being gracious and kind, they would insist in that time, “it’s no big deal” and, “this is literally the least concerning thing I have ever seen.” But I knew that they had seen what I was capable of.

I would be lying if I said I hadn’t debated a transcontinental relocation in order to once again walk with dignity.

If the prior example weren’t terrible enough, I’ll tell you of the time I let Garfunkel leave the house in nothing but a pair of denim jeans and a hooded sweatshirt (for the oldsters, that’s what the youth call a “hoodie”) and when it was an obviously brisk afternoon. As we all know, brisk is clearly light jacket weather.

I would appreciate it if you did not inform the state about that. Let’s keep it between you and I. I’ve seen a man’s entire afternoon ruined by his own flippant parenting.

If I’m being honest, and at this point I suspect there’s a compulsive need to do just that, I have never done an adequate job of reinforcing appropriate serving portion sizes. Sometimes my portion of steak is in fact larger than a deck of playing cards. I know. It’s nearly monstrous.

This is hardly an exhaustive inventory of the contents of my Shame Cave. Even if such a thing could be assembled — may the gods, old and new, take mercy upon that poor soul what tabulates that list — I am quite confident what you won’t find on that list is what I call “Classic Horsefeathers About Djunk,” or CHAD for short.

I’m reminded of when I announced I would have a daughter, my uncle, James Brohannon Wartaug, cracked wise about how I would need a shotgun soon. I know, it’s completely ridiculous. If things came to combat, there’s no reason a fully grown man should have to resort to firearms when pitted against a baby.

A baby doesn’t even have object permanence. Only a buffoon couldn’t secure victory.

After a bit of heated discussion, which culminated in the traditional Wartaug Family Duel (Brixton Rules, we’re not savages), it was brought to my attention that the shotgun would be for some theoretical legion of boys that would come a-calling.

I know, it’s silly, isn’t it? It sounds like some kind of fear-mongering, wherein I’m some kind of self-appointed bulwark of…what, exactly? I was quite confused on this particular point. If my goal is to keep Garfunkel safe, and it decidedly is, I can’t see how following her about with a shotgun ensures much more than a response from law enforcement.

“Paul,” Uncle James said, as we laced up our traditional dueling corsets. “It’s not that you need an actual shotgun. It’s that, y’know, boys will be boys.”

I wasn’t sure I understood what he was getting at, but in my defense, I was already getting warm after I put on the traditional dueling collegiate mascot outfit. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but those things can be quite distracting.

I pressed for clarification. What followed was five minutes of Uncle John sputtering and saying, “C’mon, c’mooooon”. After a lot of rambling, I realized he had been confused, and tried to straighten out the misunderstanding. I only meant to educate, but apparently he took great umbrage at it.

“I’m not talking about how gender and dynamics are heavily skewed in favor of cishet white men,” Uncle John said. “I’m saying boys will be boys!”

Thankfully, this was when the traditional dueling mascot head was affixed, and as we all know, you just can’t hear a dang thing. I just didn’t have the energy to waste on repeating myself over and over. I don’t expect I need to remind anyone how heavy the traditional dueling milk jugs can be after a bit.

Sadly, I never did get the chance to continue the conversation with Uncle John. After the traditional two hours of dueling, we were both obviously too tired for chat, and on his way home, he was carried off into the distance by sea gulls.

Paul Wartaug is a Nashua native. His column will appear on periodically in The Sunday Telegraph.

Newsletter

Join thousands already receiving our daily newsletter.

Interests
Are you a paying subscriber to the newspaper? *