On 'being a father'

Love and guilt

Today is Father’s Day. Every father feels good today.

But…I feel like a fraud writing this.

Not because I don’t love being a dad. I do. More than anything I’ve ever done.

But because right under the love, there’s this quiet hum of guilt that never fully switches off.

Guilt for the meeting that ran long.
Guilt for the phone in my hand when I should’ve been watching them building the magnet castle.
Guilt for being in the room but not actually in the room (mentally).

If you’re a parent, you already know this feeling. You don’t need me to explain it.

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Having children is the biggest privilege of my life - a brief, beautiful chance to love someone in the most selfless way that I got.

I know I only have little ones for a short time, a few years where their world is small and I’m at the center of it.

But still, it's easy to miss that, in order to rush through the mess and the noise.

There will come a day when I won't be buckling them into car seats or stepping on toys in the hallway.

Their shoes will get bigger and their need for me will be less and less.

Whenever my brain and mind works fine, I feel so grateful for this Every.Single.Second.

But still, very often, I forget….like many other fathers..

Here’s the poem called “Father Forgets” by W. Livingston, who was able to put into words what no one else has ever done quite so well. Here are his words:

FATHER FORGETS

“Listen Son, I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little hand crumpled under your cheek and blonde curls sticky over your wet forehead. I have broken into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guilty, I came to your bedside.

There are things which I am thinking, son; I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face a mere dab with the towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast, I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. As you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” I frowned and said in reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”.

Then it began all over again late this afternoon. As I came up the road, I spied you down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your socks. I humiliated you before your friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Socks were expensive, and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that son, from a father.

Do you remember later, when I was reading in the library, how you came timidly, with sort of a hurt look in your eyes? I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption; you hesitated at the door. “What is it that you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, your small arms tightened with affection that God had set blooming in your heart, which even neglect could not wither. Then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, Son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, or reprimanding; this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you: it was that I expected too much of you. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

There is so much that was good, fine and true in your character. The little heart of yours was as big as the dawn itself over the hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else mattered tonight. Son, I have come to your beside in the darkness, I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know that you would not understand these things which I have told you in the waking hours. Tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, suffer when you suffer and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy–a little boy.”

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, Son, crumpled and weary in your bed. I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much!”

If you read it and cried a little, that’s fine. I cry too, every time I read this. Thank you, W. Livingston, for this marvellous piece of writing.

However, I wanna tell you: You’re a good dad.

Because you keep showing up after the version of you that snapped this morning. You keep coming back to the bedside, even if it’s just in your head, replaying what you’d do differently.

Your kids don’t remember the perfect days. They remember that you were there. Tired, distracted, imperfect, but there.

Coming home. Showing up. Trying again tomorrow like you mean it.

You work the long hours so they don’t have to think about what they don’t have.

You skip things for yourself so they don’t skip things they need. They’re watching all of it, even when they’re too young to say so.

So…just like me..feel the guilt if it shows up. That’s fine. But remember, it means you’re paying attention.

Then let it go, soz to the perfectionists, and try again tomorrow.

That’s not failing as a father.

That’s literally the whole gig.

Happy Father’s Day, mate. You’re doing better than you think.

— Gourav