A Fathers Day Story

In matters of raising children, the experiences of fathers are woefully underrepresented. This is mostly due to the actions of the members of my sex, with too many men hurriedly absonding themselves at the moment that first infant cry is heard, or when that child support support check is due, or, perhaps in a more seemingly benign way, when that rough work day is over. In spite of these failings (which merit a discussion entirely of their own), I have come to see first hand the staying power, the nurturing capacity of men as fathers, not in some some archaic patriarchal and toxically masculine way, but rather in many of the same ways in which women fill their roles as mothers.

My children lost their mother 12 months ago, on Fathers Day. They were consequently stuck with me. And while the jury is still out as to whether this man can hope to deliver in a way that their mother could, I have nonetheless experienced a lot regarding parenting in our day and age, and it would be great negligence not to share in some small way.

There have been moments of such tremendous irony that all I could do was burst out laughing; there have been moments of gnawing anxiety and worry about my children and my ability to raise them; there have been moments of sinking exhaustion, where I had to draw upon energy that had felt long lost; there have been moments of alien patience at the pinnacle of irritation and anger; there have lastly been seemingly everlasting moments of euphoria watching my children succeed, be happy and show love to one another and to me. At least to me, each of these experiences have been so well portrayed by mothers seen in the scrolls of our social media feeds, the stories from our lives, and the broader cultural narrative in film, TV, books, etc. And so, today, Father’s Day, I give you a unique narrative of several small vignettes in a single father’s life, a somewhat rare thing to be sure, but a nonetheless useful parable for fathers and mothers alike.

Before casting off, I want to acknowledge again the fact that my situation is unique. In writing this, I hope not to cast shade on the relevance and importance of mothers. The utter necessity of mothers is indisputable. However, seeing that in my little family, we’ve been able to manage (in some way) following her exit, I hope to inspire other fathers in their own families to rise to the occasion before them, whatever it may be.

There I was. After having crossed two states and driven for nearly 12 hours, I tucked my kids into bed, put our puppy into his kennel and crashed into a crater of sleep in my bedroom. Throughout that long journey home, I had felt the telltale signs of impending illness: the persistent ache behind your retinas, the heat rising from your scalp and neck, that sensitivity to even the dimmest light, and that dull carving pain at even the lightest of touches. I was sick and I was also about to enter what I had long felt would be my parenting worst nightmare. For 2 days, I lay in a nearly-comatose state, only rising to care for the absolute necessities. My children, while infected with the same illness, were largely asymptomatic. Those two days were among the longest in my life. Somehow, the kids were fed and largely entertained. Somehow, we all got enough rest to get over being sick. Through some miracle, I did not descend into total insanity at all the rough housing and unfulfilled needs that arose during those days. I eventually reached out for and recieved help from dear family that helped keep me afloat.

Kids do and say the darnedest things. During a routine trip to the store, my son said something that came up in his first grade class. It was a sufficiently nuanced dynamic of adult sexuality that the simple, yet direct instruction that I have given him and his sister (as young as they are) was not going to cut it. As I wrung the steering wheel in tortured thought, I asked myself: How do I explain something so out-of-phase to my son? How do I cast an explanation on something for which he has zero context in a way that provides caution, but simultaneously permits him to act without guilt when he is grown? I thought through my oft-perilous journey of understanding and expressing sexuality. I provided the best and most balanced explanation to my boy as I could at the time. Discussions will continue, but I remain unsure of whether that moment in time will prove to have been helpful. Parenting is uncertainty.

I awoke very early that day. For some reason, my aging body that week had decided that a 4:30 AM circadian alarm clock was in order. It didn’t help that I had stayed up late the night before tapping out an essay similar to this. The cycle had been going on for some days and I was drained. But, to single parent is to always be on duty. And promptly, there was activity on my post. My son always greets the day with an impressive punctuality. He also hates doing so alone, so he woke his sister. My daughter does not like to be woken up and she tends to sleep in more. So, there was screaming. I grumpily uttered a plea to the Heavens that I would have enough patience to manage the situation, as I stumbled towards their room. I don’t know where it came from, because I certainly didn’t have the mental wherewithal to hold and comfort a screaming child, but I did. I held her for nearly 5 minutes, with her shrill decibels assulting my ears. There must have been something deep within that reminded me that she just needed me. She needed her dad’s arms around her while she thrashed about for control of her feelings. It subsided. She calmed, still drawing upon the comfort I had been giving. It has happened like this time and again, each occasion proving as miraculous as the first.

As a father, I never expected to cry at my children’s first day of school. That was mom’s job. Well, it happened to me. You see, my son was pushing on into 1st grade, with a new school and new friends, rather than the ones he had loved for the prior year and a half. His sister was going through the same experience, although she was jumping from a 3 times a week for a few hours preschool schedule to an every weekday, all day schedule. I knew that this would be tough for them. I also knew that it was necessary and would ultimately be helpful for them to learn and grow and become resilient adults. Nevertheless, as I clung to their narrow, little shoulders and looked into their big blue eyes, I felt that stabbing in my heart at how much was being required of them. I watched my son march off confidently (thankfully) through the front doors of the school. I released my daughter’s hand after walking her through the gates to her waiting class and thought I was giving her up for adoption. It was a torture that I hadn’t anticipated. And so, this dad drove the 15 minutes home in a quiet subtle agony and with deep pleadings that his kids would be okay. They have been.

Being a man in our world is hard. Raising a child is hard. Being a dad in our world is hard. There are legions of issues that face each one of us. And in every occasion that I have found myself gritting my teeth during some inner tantrum at the unfairness of my situation, my Father Above has always calmly consoled me and patiently reminded me that getting what I want does not come through passionate complaint, but rather through the steady task of doing the very best I can to be better. And that is the call of a Father.