I remember the exact moment I became the “Hey guys, guys, come on guys, I used to be just like you guys, guys, but come on, this isn’t cool, guys” dad. He’s worse than strict dad, boring dad or “Can I join in?” dad. He’s the dad who wants you to know that he used to be a young rapscallion, who did slightly naughty things, but now he’s a dad and, much as it pains him, he has to tell you that this just ain’t cool guys.
A sweltering Thursday afternoon finds me in the park with my kids. We’re lucky to still have the park, as it happens. Last year Bristol council threatened to slash its parks budget. But it backtracked, and so here we are, heading to the paddling pool with swimming costumes, watering cans and a float. Our park has a curious but useful design in that a fence marks out a clear family area. The rest of the park is a free-for-all for circus artists, bad acoustic guitar and teenagers doing whatever teenagers do in the park.
We are paddling. My eldest daughter runs up and down the length of the paddling pool throwing water about and squealing with delight. I hold on to my one-year-old’s hands as she navigates the water tentatively. The smell of barbecue and the faint hum of rap drifts over from the other side of the fence.
“Ah, summer,” I think. “This is the life. If this is what my Thursday childcare afternoons are to be, then I may as well set up camp here till September.” Three teenagers enter the pool area and head to the far side, which is empty. They all sit with their feet in the water. One of them starts building a spliff and the other two chat.
“Surely not,” I think. “Surely they’re just building the spliff to smoke, with cool feet, somewhere else.” I ignore them and carry on playing with my kids until a few minutes later. The sweet smell of weed starts wafting across the paddling pool. I look at them. The three teenagers are smoking and chatting away. I look at the rest of the paddling pool. Kids are playing, splashing, running, but their parents are quietly moving them to our side of the pool.
Did I have to be the one to tell the stoner teens to go away? None of the parents seem to want to do anything. Maybe they don’t care. Maybe they feel intimidated. Maybe I am making a big deal. But my lord, the air is heavy with weed.
I walk over.
“Hey guys,” I say, already off to a bad start. “Now I don’t care if you want to smoke weed in the park, but please can you do it somewhere else?”
One of the teenagers looks at me and laughs. “What’s the problem?” she says. “We’re at the other end of the pool.”
“I know,” I say. “I don’t care if you want to smoke weed, but you need to do it somewhere else.” Why did I need to reiterate that I didn’t care that they were smoking a spliff? I feel immediately like I would be the kind of dad who would say something stupid like “toke on a doobie” or “take that sweet Mary Jane to the other side of the park”. I am close, goddamnit.
“It clearly states that this is a smoke-free zone,” I say. “There are kids everywhere. Smoke that somewhere else.”
Stifling a laugh, the teenagers get out of the pool, apologising. I feel my eldest daughter shuffle next to me. She asks who I am talking to.
The teens stand outside the pool area, on the grass, finishing their spliff. I can’t bring myself to banish them to the other side of the park, because that is not what the “Hey guys, guys, come on guys, I used to be just like you guys, guys, but come on, this isn’t cool, guys” dad does. I watch them finish their spliff before re-entering the pool area, sticking their feet back in the water. “I used to be one of you guys,” I think. I look at my kids. “But that was such a long time ago…”
