The bad parent

I was the fun dad. I miss those days.

Phil Dunphy is a loving TV dad and dedicated husband.

Phil is always there for his sitcom family. He is selfless, a hopeless romantic, thoughtful, a unique blend of dorky yet funny, and deeply passionate. I wish I were more like him.

When my kids were young, I was the fun dad. We’d go on spontaneous excursions, play games, and just enjoy being together. They said I was the funny parent too, which I ate up. That all changed when I opened my businesses.

For those who have not followed along on this journey, I opened up an Italian specialties market to honor the matriarchs in my family after both my mother and Nonna died. I saw it both as a way to keep their memories alive through food — and to build something for my children.

I thought I could create a stable business with steady income, something that could grow into multiple locations with strong wholesale revenue. I wanted it to provide real opportunities for my kids when they got older: built-in security, or something they could benefit from even if they chose a different path.

I brought them to farmers markets to help run our stand. They worked at the shop here and there. I told myself we were bonding and building memories they would cherish. I thought I could build a legacy that lasted long beyond my shortened life expectancy.

Reality got in the way.

The created memories weren’t warm. They ranged between bitter and bittersweet. My legacy became one of financial strain, missed soccer games, and a constant absence from daily family life.

I became the bad parent, the antithesis to Phil Dunphy.

Where he bonded with his son, mine grew to resent me. Where he created a safe and supportive environment for his daughters, I created one of chaos and increased anxiety. Where he supported his wife, and I disproportionately leaned on mine.

I’m not the fun dad anymore. Nobody laughs at my jokes. When I enter a room, my kids leave it. They used to enjoy my company. Now, it feels like they avoid me. It doesn’t help that I can’t offer them much anymore — no trips, games, or even meaningful college assistance.

I’m embarrassed. Remorseful. Depressed.

I tried to do the right things, but failed every step of the way. At best, I’ve become a cautionary tale that might prevent my kids from taking risks in their own lives. Fear is not the lesson they should carry with them.

I don’t know how to fix this.

In short order, my daughter goes on vacation, graduates, studies abroad, and leaves for college. My son follows suit next year. I’m running out of time and don’t know if there’s a way to turn this around.

Maybe I’m being selfish, but I wonder how they will remember me. Will they feel anything when I’m gone? Will they remember the good times, or just the fallout from everything that went wrong?

That is not my primary concern, but I do think about it.

More importantly, I worry they will distance themselves from me while I’m still here. I worry I won’t see them, and that they won’t want to see me. That they’ll come back to town under the cover of night, in hopes of going unnnoticed. That they’ll reach out to their mom and leave me in the proverbial dark.

What would Phil Dunphy do?

He wouldn’t let it get this far. If he did, he’d keep showing up. He’d love his kids unconditionally and provide both levity and sincerity. He’d keep the connection alive. I try to do the same.

That might work in a sitcom in which each episode is wrapped in a neat bow. I’m not sure there is a real-world fix for this, though.