It should be no different than for Mother’s Day, but it
is. On Mother’s Day, moms
everywhere are declared free from the kitchen. Usually that means traveling to a restaurant. If not, then someone else cooks, even
if it’s just breakfast in bed.
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| Father's Day T-shirt circa 1987 |
I’m declaring the week off from cooking. In this post, there is no recipe, and
there are no pictures of food.
Instead, I’d like to share some thoughts about Fatherhood. The role of fathers has been downplayed
for many years. It’s getting
better, but it still could use a boost.
In recent history in our country, the impact of dads has been regarded
as secondary to that of mothers.
I’m not suggesting for one minute that fathers should be viewed as more
important than mothers, but I strongly feel that they are equally as important.
Attempting to accurately and thoroughly encapsulate the
importance of fatherhood in a blog post is about as easy as the getting the proverbial
camel to pass through the eye of a needle. Just my own experience in raising my two great kids, Matt and Lauren, would take several volumes, and yet, the more I thought about it, the more I was able to
distill it. It occurred to me that
fatherhood is simply about holding on and letting go, (and knowing when to do
both.)
At one time it was espoused that mothers provide the love
and fathers, the discipline. It’s
not that simple, and certainly not that cut and dry. Parenting roles need to be shared, and shared as much as
possible. But, to me at least,
it’s obvious that mothers are better at some things, and fathers have their
niche, too. Mothers are superb at
holding on. They’re nurturers,
comforters, and encouragers.
Let's face it. We all know that the job of a father is more complex. Dads have to know how to both hold on to
some things and let go of others. It’s
very stressful! Sure, we have to know
some of that mothering stuff, but we also have our own skill set. Okay, mothers everywhere, put down the
rolling pins! But now that I have
your attention, let me tell you what I really mean.
Fathers are preparers, equippers, and nudgers. A good father knows how critically important it is to let go. Moms want to hold on and, let’s be honest here, they really never want to let go. But fathers know that our job as a parent is to prepare our kids to release them; to let them go and send them out into the world, to take their place and fully realize their independence. Holding on, letting go, and knowing when to do both. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.
Fathers are preparers, equippers, and nudgers. A good father knows how critically important it is to let go. Moms want to hold on and, let’s be honest here, they really never want to let go. But fathers know that our job as a parent is to prepare our kids to release them; to let them go and send them out into the world, to take their place and fully realize their independence. Holding on, letting go, and knowing when to do both. It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it.
I wrote the following poem for my daughter last September, the week after her
wedding, and I think it does a pretty good job of capturing what
I’m talking about.
HAND-IN-HAND
It came to me when we were flying back from Birmingham,
That I rarely, if ever, hold your hand anymore,
Now that you are grown and self-sufficient,
Your need for me to function in the role of protector has
moved on.
There is a history of hand holding with you and me.
A quarter century ago it was established on a Tuesday in
November.
Not the first time I held you. You weren’t in the mood,
All red and spastic, in response to the abrupt change in
your environment.
After you discovered how to breathe and stopped flailing
your arms,
You settled down and grasped a single finger.
It was automatic, spring-like, closing when touched like a
tiny trap,
Not motivated by any need, but it still made me feel like a
million bucks.
Holding you that night in the hospital,
I started to think about what it would be like to have a
daughter.
In my family there had been no girls for fifty years, and I
knew
I was entering unchartered territory for a father with my
surname.
That night, I thought about dolls and tea parties, dresses
and hair bands.
I wondered how old you would be when you got your ears
pierced.
I thought about cooking and softball and dancing with you on
your wedding day.
It was then that I realized that someday I would have to
give you away.
I think I held onto you a little tighter.
I savored the moments when I held your hand, finding myself
Hanging on for just a fraction of a second longer.
In truth, never wanting it to end.
You probably don’t remember all the times I held your hand.
There was nothing in my fatherly job description that was
more important;
Whether it was washing them, (hands that got dirtier than
most boys),
Or removing splinters or slapping on Band Aids.
I held your hand to keep you from slipping each time you got
a bath,
Except for the time you decided you could do it yourself,
Scaling the tub and taking the plunge fully clothed…shoes
and all.
That day you also wore a smug expression of
self-satisfaction.
I held your hand when you got a shot, and when you came out
of anesthesia,
Quasi-delirious, asking me why I had two heads.
We held hands when we danced in the family room, danced
until
We were out of breath, either from the moves, from the
laughing, or both.
Your hand needed guiding when you first wrote your name in
huge block letters,
And my hands over yours helped you figure out how to hold a
baseball bat.
Next a golf club, and then a wrench to change the oil in
your car.
With each new venture you were becoming more and more
capable.
Learner’s permit in your pocket and flip flops on your feet,
I resisted taking hold of your hands when they were on the
steering wheel.
“You’re doing fine,” I partially perjured myself. And you were, for starting out.
But that didn’t stop my adrenaline rush.
Taking your hand as you came down the steps of the baptistery,
My thoughts momentarily drifted to countless street
crossings, and I realized that
You were making a crossing of another kind.
Crossing over.
Old things had passed away; all things had become new.
When you were a child, it was the street crossings that had
become the most frequent.
They had also become automatic.
It was a reflex action to reach for your hand when I stepped
off a curb.
That’s why I did it even though you were in college when we
crossed Broadway in New York City.
On that day, before we even made it to the other side, I
wondered,
“How many more times will I hold her hand?”
It was, after all, superfluous. You were grown.
You could cross by yourself,
But it still made me feel like a million bucks.
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| Alison Conklin Photography |
Like a puddle on a sunny day, time evaporated,
And even though I’d had my share, it was without warning
That I stood beside you in your white gown.
Ready, and yet not ready, to give you away.
Obliged by tradition, I offered my arm, but you didn’t
respond.
Instead, with the potential to undo me, you said,
“Can you just hold my hand?”
It was still automatic, and we joined them without looking.
Just? Just hold your hand?
Without my knowing, it was what I needed,
Needed to bring me full circle…complete.
And together we walked through another milestone,
hand-in-hand.
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| Alison Conklin Photography |
Have a Happy Father's Day! 1 Thessalonians 5:21 - "Hold on to what is good."
