Way back in my teens to mid-twenties, I used to tell anyone who’d listen that I was never, ever going to be a dad, and that was that.
Part affectation, of course, but plenty of me meant it.
I had my reasons for nixing parenthood’s prospects. My mum kicked my dad out of the house when I was five and my sister three on account of his ceaseless shag-hounding. My paternal grandfather walked out on his family, too. Booze, gambling, affairs, nothing original there. My dad was adopted, so presumably his old man hadn’t stuck around either...
I grew up suspecting that failure as a father was in my DNA. If I could avoid becoming one, I’d escape an inglorious destiny of screwing up and letting everyone down, was the way I saw it. I had a flair for maudlin dramatics and delusions of self-destruction.
I grew up suspecting that failure as a father was in my DNA. If I could avoid becoming one, I’d escape an inglorious destiny of screwing up and letting everyone down, was the way I saw it.
The whole population boom vs. planetary resources angle gave my no-breeding stance the whiff of nobility, too, which was fine by me.
As the years went on, though, my feelings changed. Being a dad, and a good one, became something I envisioned for my future, if I could only get my life together.
I wish I could say it was some personal quest to break the family deserter-dad-cycle that led to my about-face on the matter. That it was some primal hormonal imperative, or sense of duty to the future - to do my bit by bringing up one or two cool and decent humans - that changed my mind on having children.
But it wasn’t. It was plain old experience-greed. Plus your regular FOMO.
My sister had kids. My friends were starting to have kids. I’d seen the elation, exhaustion, anguish and wonder that parenting brought them, close up. Like nothing they’d ever known. If we were once around the block this life, I knew I wanted some of that, somewhere down the track, to understand how it felt.
Selfish? Shallow? Hell, yes. I could get away with that stuff back then.
I was 39 years old when my partner of four years came home from work and handed me a gift, wrapping, ribbon and all, though it wasn’t my birthday, and I was sure I hadn’t forgotten an anniversary. I tore it open to reveal a big, glossy hardback manual entitled Your Pregnancy Bible.
Slowly, surely, the cogs turned. What could this mean? Ah, I see...
I looked up from where I was kneeling (I’d been under the stereo-cabinet, trying to attach some speaker-wires when she’d come in, bumped my head on greeting her), and saw her face was quivering. I jumped up. Kissed her. Felt kind of dizzy. Then she started crying. These must be tears of joy, right? Because that’s what I was feeling, pure and undiluted joy. (Wasn’t I?) This was amazing. Fantastic. (Wasn’t it?) No. Yes. This was definitely fantastic.
Having shaken off that early reluctance to even countenance the whole reproduction and rearing deal, and finally stumbled into fatherhood, I understand now that this is the most meaningful task I’ll ever undertake.
It turned out they weren’t just tears of joy, but the other kind, too. I spent the evening soothing my beloved, telling her that everything was going to be all right, and believing it most of the time. I still do. It wasn’t just the concussion talking.
Two kids now. Six and eight. They drive us clear out of our minds with frustration and rage, and offer moments of happiness that almost break our hearts, every single day.
I know how lucky I am to be a parent. Whether I’m any good at it over the long haul remains to be seen. But having shaken off that early reluctance to even countenance the whole reproduction and rearing deal, and finally stumbled into fatherhood, I understand now that this is the most meaningful task I’ll ever undertake.
I screw up all the time, of course. However hard I try, I’m going to infuriate, disappoint and bore them stupid as they grow up, because that’s part of what dads do.
There is a joke my daughter hates me telling. It dates back to when she was about four years old, and struggling to dress herself.
“Daddy, can you put my t-shirt on?” she squeaked at me, her little head stuck in an arm-hole.
“Okay,” I said, “but I’m not sure it’s going to fit me.”
It’s amazing how often I get to roll that out. Just this morning, she needed her hairband tying and asked me if I’d put it on.
“Okay, but I’m not sure it’s going to fit me.”
Every time she asks me to put on the light, the computer or some toast. I never miss a beat. The dafter the context, the more strained the conceit, the more it drives her nuts. These are the pleasures of parenthood not mentioned in Your Pregnancy Bible.
However hard I try, I’m going to infuriate, disappoint and bore them stupid as they grow up, because that’s part of what dads do.
Finally, I can’t resist building a little dad-cred - you want to know how I currently spend an hour or two every Saturday morning?
With my son, walking with him around a nearby lakeside reserve, looking for huntsman spiders, which are his current, passionate obsession. At various stages, he’ll be up on my shoulders, peeling back the bark on gum trees, ready to try to catch one of these buggers, to be taken home in his plastic container to be studied, then released. He finds them all the time. He is a goddam spider-whisperer.
Though I am very, very far from comfortable with the idea of a huntsman spider dropping on my head, these hours have become the highlight of my week.
It’s not just how happy it makes him. It’s knowing that, maybe, he’ll remember times like this when I’m gone.
I guess I’m pretty selfish and shallow, still, parenting from the point of view of how I’ll be remembered by my kids.
Give me a break.
