You Can't Out-Fuss Dad

It's genetically impossible for me to not be fussy. At least initially depending on the situation and what's being asked of me by my family. Thankfully there have been more times in the past decade where I can just go with it, whatever the "it" is, and not get so easily upset. 

But there are many more times still when my initial reaction is "no, we can't do that because" or "no, I won't do that because". It's not an "angry" upset per se; it's a frustrated upset due to my binary operating system of "yes" and "no", with the "no's" usually winning. My wife Amy says it's because I don't like being inconvenienced. She's not wrong. Especially if I've got my mind set on doing something my way, and I'm asked to think about and do something another way, especially when it's a better way. 

For example, I bought a new drum kit (Happy Father's Day to me!) and needed to make more room in the garage so I could set it up. The footprint for my last drum kit wasn't going to be enough to accommodate this one. That meant getting rid of stuff that we've wanted to get rid of and moving stuff around that we've wanted to move around. I envisioned a way of doing some of that, but my vision version can be myopic; I just want it done even if it's not the most efficient way. My time is my money, honey. Like when I go shopping: I look, I buy, I'm done -- usually at the first place I look.

Amy's the planning and puzzle master, though. She has a holistic awareness about space, the things in that space, and how they might be organized and reorganized. She had great ideas, I fussed about them and then acquiesced to the fact that we could free up a lot more space with her recommendations, including taking a big load of stuff to Goodwill. At least 2-3 times per year we're donating "stuff" to Goodwill, because then we're buying new stuff (thank you, George Carlin). 

When I do think more holistically, which I can mind you, I do triangulate on various helpful options. I just channel my lovely wife -- and voilà! -- it's magic time. Or, magic drum time in this instance.

I've written about how our car is almost fussier than me. Almost. My fussy has become comedic fodder for me and my family. Both our kids, Beatrice and Bryce, love saying "so fussy" to me when I'm expounding frustrations about whatever. In fact, it's part of our love language; they want me to be fussy because they know I'm not reacting out of spite. Never. Instead, it's fussy-safe and they know how much I love them. 

Now, it's important to note that Amy, Beatrice, and Bryce can all be fussy with each other and me, but as Bryce so eloquently put it recently, "You can’t out-fuss Dad."

You cannot. Ever. Happy Father's Day to me.