A flowery Father's Day post

Oh, the sanctity of fatherhood, the grandest of manly accomplishments. It's more than just the creation of life, of joining egg and sperm. It's a spiritual journey of sorts and a proclamation of manhood. While many more dollars extol the sacredness of motherhood on Mother's Day, not much is made of Father's Day. What gives? Well, maybe it's because most of us have dads who suck. Why celebrate that shit?

I hate my father. I have many reasons. Shall we?

My father has no idea who I am. After 41 years, he has no fucking clue. How does a man watch his son grow up (okay, maybe he wasn't around) and not know who he is, what he is made of, his strengths and weaknesses, or anything for that matter? And how am I always wrong, no matter what I say? I'm 41 years old and you're still correcting me? And you wonder why I am silent?

When my father learned I was to become a father, his words of wisdom to me were: "Maybe now you'll get your shit together." Thanks, dad. What shit did I not have together? I had a good job with good benefits like health insurance, dental insurance, eye insurance, and the equivalent of five weeks of vacation per year (if I still had the job, I'd have more now), a pension someday and matching 401k, as well as other perks (and an admittedly poor schedule and not much cultural cache), I had a home, lots of things that homes require, and lots of interesting hobbies. I was intelligent, kind, and talented and had somehow kept my failing relationship intact for the better part of two decades in spite of my ex doing everything to jeopardize it. What did I miss? How the fuck was my shit not together? But such is my father. The stupidity of someone who insists they are right in the face of facts to the contrary is the most impenetrable stupidity. What did my father even know of my life and my many struggles, all the things I had overcome (many of which came directly from him)?

What kind of father was I? I took great care in preparation for my son coming into this world. I was hell-bent on divorcing my wife, but when I learned we were going to have a child, I changed my mind and did everything in my power to strengthen that marriage and the chances for all of us to have a happy life. I quit my job and moved across the country to start a new life — a life where I would be present in my child's life instead of working all the time. Where the fuck were you, dad, when I was growing up? When one of my brothers was being delivered at the hospital, why were you at an auction? I was in the room when my son came out. You weren't even in the hospital.

My father, when confronted by massive financial problems after the construction of our home went way over budget in the 1980s, told my mother he was going to kill his three boys, her, and then himself. Yeah, sounds like a great dad. Confronted by my father about my own parenting, I replied, "I won't discuss my parenting with you." If he had even tried to be a father, this might be an option. It's become obvious to me the way my parents treat my son is an overcorrection of the way they parented their sons. It makes me angry, and I know it shouldn't. They encourage my son to speak his mind, to go boldly about life with confidence. But these were the same people who were always telling me to shut up, beating down what little confidence I had. My oldest brother said it's ironic I have a son who talks so much because I am often silent, but how many times has my son been told to be quiet compared to the hundreds of times I heard it as a child? What the fuck did you expect? Why weren't my worlds valuable and his are precious like gold? Why are his shenanigans cute but mine were grotesque? My songs stifled but his regaled? Why do you cringe when I spank my son in love when you beat me with fury? To my family: shame on you.

Am I an awesome dad? No, not by any means. Maybe in a different life, I would have been. Honestly, I don't know how to be a father without a proper role model. Judging by my son's behavior, I am a terrible dad. Possibly the worst. His behavior is, frankly, troubling, which is a word I've often used to describe his behavior over the last 4.5 years. If he's this bad now, what kind of hope do I have for the future? It is only going to get worse. The spankings don't always help. The other night, I don't know how many times I spanked him for the same thing as always — not listening — and there was no change in behavior. I ended up taking away something fun — vacation Bible school, first one day, then the whole thing — because the spankings were stacking up but his behavior was worsening. Too many days and nights have been spent like that. When someone is constantly oppositional, it is exhausting. It's like having his mother in a smaller, more energetic body terrorizing me day and night. I got rid of one manipulative, controlling, confrontational, stubborn, and selfish human being and got another one! I can't win. But maybe I can change this one. There is still hope.

A lot of people seem to think spanking is abuse. I am not one of those people. Spanking my child is often the only way I can get him to listen and behave. Sometimes even that does not work! I do hew to the Biblical model of correction. I figure God knows what works better than I do. So, yes, I spank my son when he misbehaves. It's better he receives correction from me in the form of spankings now than life's corrections later on. And when my son nearly gets hit by cars (this has happened multiple times now) as he's crossing the street because he isn't listening to me, that's a problem, isn't it? Listening and obeying are key to getting along in this world. The world is full of rules. Most of them are to keep us safe from things like speeding cars (and thank God for attentive drivers). So, yeah, my son is only four and a half years old, but his abilities are often on a higher level. He knows the rules. He chooses to disobey the rules. He gets spanked. This is my job. He gets spanked more at my place than at his mother's; this much he has told me. His behavior will improve, but it will take time. 

I was spanked as a child, though not often, and mostly by my mom. My dad, the few times I recall him spanking me, did it out of anger. It wasn't so much a paddling of my butt as it was beating me. I was terrified and honestly thought he was going to kill me. Spanking a child out of anger, though perhaps justified at the time, is damaging. Spanking a child because you love them and don't want them to be a fool and get chewed up by the world is love. I wish I could simply sit down with my son and talk about things, but I can't. Unfortunately, the only way I can get his ears to open up is to paddle his bottom (which is the only place a child should be spanked, by the way, as there is sufficient padding there and no lasting harm will occur). When I have the wooden spanking spoon in my front pocket, that means I'm on dad duty.

I wasn't a planned pregnancy. In fact, my parents were using two forms of birth control when I was conceived. I have felt unwanted my entire life. My dad didn't want to be inconvenienced by raising me or being a part of my life. I, on the other hand, want to be a part of my son's life. It pains me I only get to see him a week then miss him the next week. So, we make the most of our time. I don't think I have to interact with him 100 percent of the time, as I think he needs to be able to play by himself sometimes too. But I am a present parent. We can talk about anything anytime. We read books and magazines. We play with his Brain Flakes. We practice his numbers and letters. He draws independently. He colors. We go down to the gym together and he races me on the treadmill next to mine. We visit the park and he (hopefully) gets to play with other kids, giving dad a little break. We horse around. We laugh at stupid things. And I'm always there. If he wants a hug, he can get a hug. I always thought he wasn't going to be a snuggler, but I've gotten him to enjoy snuggling and things like hugs. He's much more demonstrative than he used to be. I don't want my son being bottled up inside. I want him to be able to express affection.

I know I'm not a great father. I'm just a single, divorced guy trying his best (and mostly failing). I have no one else to blame for my mistakes. Was it a good idea to forego the "cry it out" bedtime routine with my infant son, opting to sing and cradle him to sleep? I couldn't stand his crying. It was like he was being butchered. So we didn't do the cry-it-out thing. And now bedtime is a nightmare because he never learned how to self-soothe and put himself to sleep. Live and learn, I guess. How many mistakes have I made with good intentions? Don't get me started. But I have been present in my son's life, in spite of the fact I was taking classes for much of his short life. I've been there. People would comment about how much time I spent with him, even when he was very little. It wasn't an obligation. It was my heartfelt desire to be with him, even if it meant nothing more than taking a walk in the woods while he napped in his papoose.

Wet shoes, mud on his face and in his ears, with his gun-sword. He epitomizes boyhood.

It's my theory that God gives us children who make us uncomfortable. Not always. But there seems to be at least one in the batch who sets us on edge. I couldn't get one of those delightful, smiling vegetable kids I see in restaurants who seem to only exude goodness and tranquility. They seem so well-adjusted and quiet. My son is a rampaging bank robbery in progress at all times, trying to stand on his head while eating his breakfast, all while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, a commercial he saw on TV yesterday, and making up a story about his invisible lynx savior cheetah racer shoes that protect him from lava. During one of our weeks, he spilled his drink on the floor four nights in a row. He can't sit still. Ritalin is made for kids like this. I've literally never seen a kid like him before. How many nights have I retreated to my recliner, thinking, "What the hell is he?"

I'm reminded of a story a woman told of her two kids. One was a little dumpling, as good as could be when he was little. He didn't make any fuss, was even-tempered and lovely. The other was a scalded wildcat, making trouble at every turn, and was infinitely creating and expanding her world. One was a rocket and one was the launching pad. As they grew up, the woman realized that one was going to lead a very boring life, and he has. The other one she became more and more proud of as she calmed and directed her energy. She led a far more interesting life, but in a meaningful, less-destructive way. The woman said she appreciated her daughter's temperament as she aged and distance made it possible to see the value of her traits. I listened and thought to myself my son will probably not lead a boring life. 

No, I'm not a good father. One is not born with the ability to raise a child. Yes, I can keep him alive by making food (well, some might call it food) and making sure he wears clean clothes (at least until he soils them), but raising a child is much more than that. I'm learning and trying to understand him and how best to communicate with him. Sometimes I have to give myself a few moments before I do what I have to do because I'm so angry or confused or bewildered or tired. The difficult moments will someday give way to other difficult moments, but there will be inevitable victories. Watching him work through a problem on his own without having a meltdown is a rare moment, but it's worth waiting for. Watching him interacting with other children and adults and having conversations as easily as the wind blows is amazing. His talents are not my talents. But there is hard work to be done, too, and sometimes I grit my teeth and bite my tongue. Parenting is hard work. It's a relationship for which I had no good role model. The best I can do is think of the men in my church long ago who befriended me and adopted me spiritually. God knows I'm not cut out for this job. I don't think that's the point. The point is I have to acknowledge I need His guidance and help in raising my son. And that's a relationship I understand.

I often tell my son I'm not here to make his life easy. Or to make it hard. My job is to prepare him for the real world. I want to have fun, of course. But it's back-to-basics because until he can listen and obey, fun will be limited. For both of us. I'm not the best dad in the world, but I'm working on it. What fathers give their children is something lacking in children who grew up without a present father (like myself): validation. We go our whole lives looking for validation and often don't find it. Moms love. Dads validate and affirm what we are.

It's probably clear from my last few posts that I'm angry. The anger is a part of my process, but I'm starting to think it's just not helping at all. If I have truly forgiven what happened to me as a boy, then I need to also let go of the anger, and for my own good. I can feel that my anger is the next thing God will have me deal with. After all, how can I be angry when God has done so much for me? And it may be impeding forgiveness, so I'll have to let it go soon.

My father was not a perfect dad, nor am I. One day my son will come to me and ask why I wasn't a better father. Maybe my answer will be "because we are all hopelessly flawed," but I hope I accomplished one thing — I hope I showed him the way to his Heavenly Father. After all, He is a father who has everything we need.