Blamed at Breakfast, Defeated by Dinner: A Father’s Tale

They say small children believe their parents wake up each morning, stretch, and casually release the sun into the sky like it’s a golden retriever. This is the generous interpretation of parental omnipotence. The darker truth? Parents are also the designated scapegoats for every cosmic injustice, from missing socks to global pandemics.

My initiation into this sacred duty came when my oldest was two. His mother, upon discovering an empty box of cookies, asked him—with the gentle tone of a detective knowing the suspect is hiding crumbs in his onesie— where the treats had gone. His reply? “It was Dada. I think Dada was the stoler.”

Let me be clear: I was at work that day. Miles away. Surrounded by witnesses. Yet there I was, convicted of cookie grand larceny by a toddler with frosting on his breath.

When I got home ,I knelt to his eye level, sighed, and explained, “Buddy, I get thrown under the bus enough at the office. I don’t need it here too.”

This, of course, backfired. For weeks, he asked if my job involved “hiding under buses” and whether I’d brought any “bus friends” home for dinner. My attempts to clarify fell on deaf ears.

Since then, my wife and I have served as the blame magnets of the house. Lost shoes? “Mama moved them!” Stomach bug? “Dada didn’t cook the burgers enough!” A surprise thunderstorm cancelling pool day? “But you promised!” (Note to self: Look into controlling weather. Could be a lucrative side hustle.)

Parental blame is an art form. It’s creative, relentless, and often weirdly specific. I once got accused of making the wifi go out “because Dada doesn’t like when we have fun.” Another time, I was blamed for a chick that died mid-hatch and was told my middle name was “evil” and there were acorns nicer than me.

And yet — despite the constant drum beat of parental blame, there’s a kind of pride in it. When your child looks you dead in the eye and claims you caused them to slip and fall because they ran in a mud puddle, you realize: To them, you’re both a deity and a dartboard. You control their universe, but also its hiccups. It’s the world’s least glamorous superhero gig.

So, to all parents currently being blamed for skinned knees, melted ice cream, missing crayons, or not knowing where their favorite socks are despite being at work all day, take heart, one day, they’ll move out, pay taxes, and finally grasp that you’re not the puppet master of life’s chaos.

Until then, I’ll be in the garage, practicing my cloud-whispering. Just in case.