The Dad Thing
Those of you who know me well know that my father was not a daily figure in my life. But he played a bigger role than his monthly visits for most of my life would suggest. He’s been gone just over ten years now. And my thoughts on Father’s Day are now almost completely about what my children and I can do to celebrate my husband, whose superdad qualities put my own father to shame.
Of the women I know who have been married, most of them fall into one of two categories: those who marry someone just like their dads, and those who marry someone as unlike their dad as they can find. I used to think that I’d done that second thing. And it’s true — my husband is as un-mentally ill, un-physically abusive, un-sexist a specimen you will find among males. But that’s not what I was thinking on a conscious level when we married and had children. At that time, I was thrilled that I’d found an attractive, monogamous man who I wanted to spend all of my time with.
When I first met him, he was 18 years old. Fairly early in our friendship, he said that he hoped to have children someday. That was too much honesty for me to handle at that age, as accustomed as I was to everyone else’s (and my own) teenage narcissism. But about five years and many late-night conversations later, I was no longer able to resist the love I felt for him. We began our “real” relationship, the long, slow path of two Gen X people with divorced parents who wanted companionship and family but feared the pain of more loss.
My own father died, suddenly, on Christmas Day in 2000. I suppose I was fortunate in some ways, since the last time I’d seen him we had enjoyed a meaningful visit. My soon-to-be husband and I spent a week with him that was as close to “closure” as I could hope for with someone as mentally ill as my father (who had paranoid schizophrenia). Two years after his death, our first child was born. By that time, I had mourned as a daughter. But when my own daughter was born, I could not help feeling a little sad that she would never know her grandfather. My father, by virtue of his illness and probably his innate personality, was not a pleasant person. The stories of arguments and our family living on high alert around him are too numerous to recount here. But what I remember about him as a father was he was steadfast in his loyalty and love. It was as though he’d waited his entire life to be a father to my brother and me, even if the way that he cared for us didn’t help us very much.
We now have two children, and my husband is a better father than I ever imagined. He has fun with the role, even as he takes his responsibilities seriously. The ultimate compliment to his abilities came one day at my son’s preschool. The children were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up. Several of the boys said they wanted to be fire fighters, doctors, and one said “the president.” Our son wrote that he wanted to be a dad.
I’ve been thinking a lot over the past decade about what it means to be a father, particularly a great father. The answer is not easy. My dad was more flawed than most fathers. And I refuse to say that intention trumps all — that lets too many off the hook. But love, and wanting to be a father, do matter. At least it’s a good start.
