While it may not always seem like it on here, I’m generally a very calm person, now anyways. Four years in the Marines (most of them spent in combat zones), and eight years in kitchens add up to a whole lot of toxic anger and stress. Shedding all that, and the obligatory cigarettes that came with it, was a huge weight off my mind. Unfortunately, there are still people in the world that make me go into Wolverine Berserker Mode.

This past Saturday was “Touch a Truck Day” in a neighboring town. Touch a Truck is the greatest idea in the history of mankind for parents. I’ve never seen the Mayor more easily placated for two solid hours. Let him beep a tow truck’s horn, crawl around in the back of a mail truck, jump on some giant tires, and mash some buttons in an old ambulance and he smiles brighter than Kanye in a room full of mirrors. Seriously, look at this face:

Before we could make it to the parking lot, however, we had to get daddy’s nectar at Dunkin’ Donuts. (I swear, this blog is not sponsored by Dunkin’ Donuts, although I would absolutely sell out for iced coffee and hash browns in a heartbeat. America runs on Dunkin!) Mommy went to get our coffees so I could stay in the car and avoid the dreaded car seat exit and quick re-entry.

Now, 10:00 AM on a Saturday at this particular Dunkin’ is about as packed as a subway car in Tokyo, you better be real flexible with your plans, because getting in and out quickly is far from guaranteed. After about five minutes, I hear crying coming from the SUV parked next to me. When it doesn’t stop, I glance to the driver’s seat (not in judgment, I swear), but there’s no one up front. I immediately get out of the car to confirm my fears, that there are two babies in the back seat, crying and screaming without a parent in sight. But, oh, they cracked the window for them, because having kids is the same as having dogs. And just like that, I’m seeing red.

I try to flag down my wife through the store front, and sign to her that someone left their babies in the car, (the sign language comes in handy for us, too) but nobody comes running out. After another ten-fifteen minutes, out comes the dad of the year. Luckily, I’ve been reading “I Am Malala“, so I resist my urge to go all Brad Pitt gypsy bare knuckle boxer on him. I start calmly.

“Hey, man. You know you left your babies in the car?”

“Why don’t you mind your own !@#$ing business?”

I proceed to verbally lay into this single-cell organism with the heated fury of a thousand blazing suns. I believe I exited my human form and unleashed a barrage of obscenities that would make George Carlin roll over in his grave.

“Don’t tell me what to do with my kids? Do you even have kids?”

There’s no helping this shaved ape. Unfortunately there’s no helping his kids either. Accidents happen, and sometimes in a rush, parents forget their kids in the car. It’s still horrible, but it’s unintentional. It was clear that this sad excuse for a human being just couldn’t handle his kids and DECIDED to leave them in an unlocked car on a main road for OVER TWENTY MINUTES. Sadly, this was the first time that not one single police officer was at this Dunkin’, less than one block from the town PD. Lesson learned on my part, the non-emergency lines for all nearby towns are now programmed in my phone.

The whole thing sent me into such a rage, not just because of this isolated incident (though I’m sure it wasn’t the first time he’s done this, hopefully it was the last), but because this meathead is the reason why Dads get portrayed as bumbling fools who can’t change a diaper or push a stroller.

For the first few months of my foray into stay-at-home parenting, every time I brought the Mayor to a play group or story time, *GASP* on a weekday, *GASP* without my wife, I felt like Otter walking into the Dexter Lake Club, not exactly welcome. It took months before the moms and nannies realized that this wasn’t part-time for me.

As a full-time dad, you feel scrutinized for every single word, action, and inaction. You’re definitely under a microscope, and some days it takes Kevlar thick skin. Meltdown in the supermarket? He must not be able to control him. Trip while climbing the slide? I can’t believe he just let him fall like that! I don’t helicopter and coddle my kid, so I must not really care, right? No. I don’t cave in to his tantrums when he wants cookies instead of carrots. I try to let him learn from his falls. A short drop onto soft rubber isn’t going to hurt for more than five seconds. I still have to face the stigma of the useless father every day because of walking, talking stereotypes like that dad.

In the words of the great Ben Harper:

So excuse me Mr.

But I’m a mister too

And you’re givin’ Mr. a bad name

Mr. like you

So I’m taking the Mr.

From out in front of your name

Cause it’s a Mr. like you

That puts the rest of us to shame