Perhaps the most difficult part of being a father is watching your child suffer heartbreaking disappointment because of your failures.

This evening I picked up Chinese food on my way home from work. My girls are especially fond of Chinese food. So, I was proud to walk through the door and announce what was in my heavy white bag. The girls danced in circles escorting me to the kitchen table like a pair of excited dolphins.

As I began spooning the contents of one of the folded paper boxes onto a plate Clara pointed and asked, “So, what is this again?”

“This is chicken” I told her happily. And then picking up the next box I continued, “and this is beef.”

She shook her head, staring at the warm nuggets of sweet breaded meat, “No, what is all of this called again?”

“Oh,” I said, “This is Chinese food.”

“That’s right.” She said sadly, resting her arms on the table and frowning at her plate. “I wish I was Chinese. Then I could eat this every day.”

I try so hard to do what is best for my kids. But it is all a loss. Because apparently all they ever really wanted in life was to be born Asian. And as hard as we have tried, producing Chinese children has always been a skill Andrea and I are not especially gifted in.