Fathers Day is fast approaching and I’ve managed to survive the first 5 years of fatherhood. It’s been 100 times more difficult than I had ever imagined, but 1,000 times more rewarding. I’ve tried many times over these years to create genuine, fine moments of fatherhood; Mr. Cleaver, Mr. Brady sort of moments. What I’ve realized is that the planned, orchestrated moments of fatherhood are not the finest moments. It’s the little things, the really little things that fathers do that are the most memorable. It’s time and effort, something we all can afford.
I, like many fathers of my generation are overly cautious. Our parenting is well planned, we think we are ready. We have our careers underway, we met with the financial planners and we’ve orchestrated their schooling well. I throw down for everything “on ice”; Elmo on Ice, Disney on Ice, Princess on Ice, Hasslehoff on Ice, you name it. I buy my daughter everything she asks for. Everything that’s almost guaranteed to make her a certifiable brat! This does not necessarily make a good father. It’s taken me time to realize this. It’s very funny when I think about some of the finer moments with my father when I was young. I’ve realized that kids don’t really know what’s it’s like to be poor or broke. They just want time with their dads.
I distinctly remember going to my father’s apartment with my sisters, not long after my parents divorce. I can still picture the apartment. Very simple, red brick on the south side of
It was a rare occasion that we actually did go to a game. I had memories of going all the time, but it was probably just a handful of times. I guess my dad sold more shoes or something those weeks. We would always eat before we went, concessions were just too pricey. Dad would escort us quickly past the souvenir stand. I don’t think we ever asked to stop. We would always sit in right field. That was just “our spot”. I had no idea until I got older that those were the cheap seats. This is where all the long haired, shirtless drunks were. They would shout profanities at the opposing team… and by the end of the game, each other. Typically by the 7th inning or so, we would see security escort at least one of them out and the entire section would “Boo” the security. We were the underdogs in right field and the Royals were underdogs in 1976, so we were double underdogs, especially against the Yankees and the drunk, sun burnt guy deserved to stay. It also wasn’t until later in life that I realized the other sections were completely different. I had no idea that people wore shirts and something other than cut offs. The kids were well groomed and had every souvenir and food item imaginable. It would have been quite an event to sit behind the batter with the quiet fans, but I wouldn’t trade all of that for that for the rowdy section or that day on the carpet squares, soaking wet, eating homemade popcorn.
I have hundreds of memories like this. Reflecting back, it wasn’t the expense, the event or the prize. It was time and effort from dad. He did what he could and clearly gave us his undivided attention, when he could. If only I can remind myself of that as I’m bombarded with entertainment options for my daughter. Sure, I love Mario Lopez on Ice as much as the next guy, but I’ll plop down on the carpet with my daughter and share a bag of popcorn instead. I hope she has a fond memory of it 30 years later, just as I do.
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