On Being a Dad

One of the main motivators which precipitated this journey into the mess of my life was my son Andrew, who I have given over to referring to as The Boy. There are only a handful of people in my life (he, my wife, a few others) who have my heart fully (flawed as it is). In the process of reading Brené Brown’s books, I began to realize that I needed to figure out how to be fully human so that in part, I could model something better to my son, than I have done in the first fifteen years of his life.

For most that know me, even a little, I think it safe to assume that my affection for my son is self-evident. With that said, my tendency has been to express that deep affection via indulgence both in goods and time. Being the father of a single child enables this kind of attention, in ways that those with multiple children, probably can’t afford, on either of those fronts. When Andrew was eight years old, he expressed how distressing he found my many trips away buying coffee. The solution seemed simple to me, although not ideal; find someone else to buy green coffee for Transcend. While I have never loved the “getting somewhere” I have always loved the “being somewhere” and truthfully, although rarely spoken, that decision was a significant sacrifice for me. I was giving something up, that was not just critical to my business, but something that I found profound meaning in and had shaped me in ways, too many to count. It is however, a sacrifice that I count as a blessing, and would do it all over again.

I know that I spoil my kid. I know that many of his friends are likely jealous of him, and what he has, what he gets to do, just like I was jealous when I was young, and watched with envy from the sidelines as my friends rode new motorbikes, drove new cars, had better clothes. I know that my indulgent approach to affection emanates from my own experience. I am a gift-giver, it is my “love language” but truthfully it is just easy! I enjoy shopping, I enjoy finding something that I think others would appreciate and buying it for them. But I also know that this form of affection is in part, a copout. It is easy to give a gift, it is far harder to share deeply held emotions. It is even relatively easy to spend time with my son, when he and I share common interests (surprise surprise, I nurtured a love of golf and snow in him, and steered him away from hockey!). It isn’t much of a sacrifice to head to the mountains, and spend a couple of days on the slopes, even if all that I am now is a glorified camera man.

So in large part, this journey I am on, is about him, my warrior wife, and our family. I want to live differently during these last decades of my life, and I want to give him the gift of learning how to live fully, embracing the messy middle, embracing his emotions, embracing all that life has to offer up, so that he can reap the benefits of a life well lived before he turns fifty!

I am in the midst of writing a poem for him for Christmas. Yes he will get gifts too, but whether he appreciates it now, or not, I want to give him something from my core. That poem is proving difficult to write, and I am struggling to convey his story, which I find interesting. Unlike this poem, which I wrote while laying in bed last night, unable to sleep.

Tears of joy, tears of trepidation, announced with rasping cries, cracking like thunder, disruptive, rapturous first breaths.

A tsunami of possibility, decades flash across my vision, blinking then gone.

Crushing love spills from the jigger, a dash of hope, a twist of fear, shaken and poured, a cocktail of what might be.

I drink, parched cracked lips never satisfied. Dependant and now powerless to resist, forever blinded by your beauty.

Stammering now, years fleeing, hounds at bay, your innocence evaporates in the heat of my gaze. Too soon you are my rival. Too soon will my conversation fail to hold your ear.

Knees now creek with joy, your vigour relentless, all that I hoped. Now exhausted I lag behind, soon satisfied to only watch from a distance. 

A chair at the end of the lane now bears my weight, heavy eyelids straining to see a shadow on the horizon, beckoning your presence, craving a momentary embrace. Until then, memories will suffice! 

This poem is about me, about fatherhood, and I think that is why it was easier to pen. Hopefully it is also a bit representative of most fathers hopes and fears concerning their children. And my hope in this journey is that as I examine my own emotions, and begin to find ways (seemingly poetry) to express these feelings, I will be able to give The Boy a gift that will never fade, never wear out, and one that he will be able to give to his children, should he choose to be a father.

For now, I know that I am blessed, in the middle of this mess. I have The Boy, almost fifteen, who still enjoys my presence, who still wants to do things with me, beat me in pingpong, drive a ball further down the fairway. Looking back on where I was at his age, I know how lucky that I am. And I am beginning to hold out hope, that if nothing else, this journey might offer up the joy of having a continuous relationship with my son, throughout all of his years.