© 2003 Brian Hodges - Please do not remove the copyright from this essay

hen I tell people I'm going to be a dad, I make jokes hinting that I'm not ready: "This kid is in big trouble. I can't even keep myself clean! Lord knows I'll screw him up somehow. Do you know how many times I forgot to feed my cat?" The truth is I know I'm going to be a great dad. I'm no child psychologist or family wellness professional, but I have discovered the key to being a good parent. It's quite simple actually. All you have to do is realize that, like it or not, you are not cool.

And don't try playing the whole, "I used to be cool," thing. As soon as you become a parent, you just have to accept the fact that you are not now, nor have you ever been, cool. You know how hard it was after the scandals and the skin dyeing to remember how cool Michael Jackson used to be? Becoming a parent negates any and all coolness you ever once achieved.

The truth became so clear to me while Lauren and I were babysitting our friend's kid, Lincoln. We took two-year-old Lincoln with us to a luncheon at Lauren's aunt's house. There were a lot of people there he didn't know and I figured he'd probably be scared, so I did my best to make him feel comfortable. Apparently I did a good job.

Lincoln started playing a game that he must have picked up at daycare or on Sesame Street. He ran around singing, "Let's do THIS… today! Let's do THIS… today! Let's do THIS… today!" Every time he said, "THIS", he bent over and slapped his hands on the floor. Every time he said, "Today!" he jumped back up and threw his hands into the air. At first I just encouraged Lincoln from the sidelines, but he kept poking me and saying, "Come on!" between choruses. Before you knew it, there I was, slapping my hands down and jumping up like a cheerleader. "Let's do THIS… today!"

All my in-laws were there. They were eating quiche, discussing current events and watching me from the comforts of their chairs with faces that said, "Dude."

It was probably a side-effect of the blood rushing to and from my head for three hours straight, but that day I had an epiphany: "I'm going to be a great dad for no other reason than I already know I'm not cool." Anybody who beats their hands on the floor repeatedly while singing "Let's do THIS… today!" is obviously not cool. It didn't bother me. Not at all. Because in Lincoln's eyes, I was John freakin' Lennon.

Some people try to play both sides - model parent and social butterfly. It may work for awhile, but eventually that restaurant scene from Mrs. Doubtfire happens, where both personalities have to be in the same place at the same time. Your old friends and your new child are vying for your attention and only one is going to win. In front of your cool little circle, Junior is going to say, "Daddy, be a fish." And you will have to make a decision. Do you keep talking about how Quentin Tarrantino is still "the man"? (That's what my cool friends used to talk about.) Or do you pucker up those lips, puff out the cheeks and say, "Blub blub"?

Me, I'll be down on that floor making gurgling noises and trying to swim my way across the carpet. So will any good parent who has accepted the law of nature that their child has destroyed any chance they ever had of being cool.

And the great thing is that that realization doesn't have to be met with a sense of resignation and loss. When you're a good parent you become cool in a completely different way. What could be cooler than a guy who isn't putting on a show, who keeps it real, and who knows who he is and what's important to him? That's the kind of guy I'd buy a beer and shoot the breeze with on a Saturday night - except that I know he promised his kid he'd read him a story before bedtime, which is at seven o'clock. Hey, no problem. Maybe next time Walrus.

"Let's do THIS… today!" I can't wait. I'm going to be so cool.