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There is a huge difference between dads and fathers, which is why Sunday's celebration should be called Dad's Day.
Any man with the right equipment can father a child. Evidence of that is all around us, in half-empty homes and in the increase in babies having babies.
But dads ... real dads ... now that's something to shoot for.
I never really had a dad. At least not the kind of dad I ever wanted to be when I grew up. I had a father instead. In fact, I had two fathers, one natural and one substitute. Neither one of them ever really made the rank of dad.
Father No. 1 left us when I was 2 years old. After three children (we were 1, 2 and 3 years old), he'd decided he really didn't want to be a father, let alone a dad, so he went home to his parents.
Father No. 2 came along soon after and I give him credit for marrying a woman with three young children. Not a lot of guys out there willing to do that. As it turned out, I wished he hadn't been so willing. He was a terrible father, dad and human being who would eventually die a horrible death, rest his rotten soul (good that's off my chest, eh?).
Looking back, I don't think either one of my fathers knew what they were doing when it came to fatherhood. Their own fathers were just as miserable as they were, which is why most shrinks suggest there is a pattern when it comes to those things.
Dr. Phil wasn't around in those days and all dads had to go by was Ward Cleaver. I loved Ward and always wished my father was like him. When I became a father I discovered it was impossible to be like Ward and that Ward probably had some serious unresolved issues. And his wife June reminded me of one of those Stepford Wives, suggesting that she may have even had some problems with painkillers, which is why she was always smiling, even when Beaver poured sugar into the gas tank.
Alcohol didn't help my stepfather's efforts to become a dad. He was what they refer to as a “mean drunk,” someone you wanted to steer clear of when he was drinking. My Uncle Bill, by comparison, was a happy drunk. We'd wait for him to finish a six-pack and hit him up for $20. You had to be resourceful in a house with no real dad.
I took notes in those days, writing down all the things I would do differently if I ever was a father. At the top of the list was hitting. A dad should never hit his children. I'm not talking about a light swat on the fanny, either. I'm talking about slaps in the face and punches to the belly, the kind of thing fathers go to jail for these days.
Back then it was OK to smack your wife and kids around. “Trouble with the old lady,” the cops referred to it as when they'd come to the front door after a neighbor's call. “Having trouble with the old lady?” they'd ask. “Just try to keep it down.” And then they'd leave.
Nurturing is also a good thing for a dad-in-training should work to develop. As a kid I loved baseball a LOT. I'd sleep with my mitt and when I got a New York Yankees baseball cap I didn't take it off for three months. When I told my stepdad I wanted to learn to pitch he took me in the backyard and threw the hardball as hard as he could. “Catch it, you sissy!” he'd yell. When I started crying he tossed the ball over the fence and stormed inside.
That, my fellow fathers, is not a nurturing attitude. I made a note to never do that.
“So how should he have handled it?” you ask.
Let's rewind.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “I want to pitch this year. Can you come out and show me how?”
“Sure, son. Let me put down this gin and tonic and we'll go out back.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“OK, son. You wind up like this and you rotate your arms and legs this way.”
If you are self-centered, fatherhood is probably not a good thing for you. You may want to get a vasectomy, or a good supply of protective devices. A good dad needs to recognize that life does not revolve around him and that these children he's responsible for are like flowers. They need warmth and love. And I've never met an impatient gardener. Not a good one, anyway.
When I became a father — almost 25 years ago now — I realized that it was going to be a lot tougher than I thought. Right off the bat our baby was a screamer. We had to feed her goat's milk because of her sensitive tummy and when her tummy hurt she'd scream so loud it would rattle the walls.
It was unsettling at first, until I discovered that if I put her on my belly and rubbed her back she would stop crying. We spent many nights on the couch tummy-to-tummy and it was during those quiet nights that I realized how special this little thing was and how much she would depend on me for many years to come.
I also realized that I had a lot to learn and that I really didn't know a whole hell of a lot about fatherhood, let alone how to be a good dad.
I made a lot of mistakes along the way, but I think I got better with each one (I have two daughters and a son). I had lunch with my oldest daughter (she paid) last week and she gave me my Father's Day card and gift. On the front of the envelope she wrote, “DAD.” Inside, decorated by a pair of good-sized shoes (“Nobody can fill your shoes” it read), my daughter wrote this: “You are a wonderful dad and I love you so much!”
I had finally arrived.
So happy dad's day to all the dads out there. And to all you fathers ... keep working at it.
There is nothing more rewarding in life than looking across the table at a beautiful human being and knowing you had something to do with that.
Any man with the right equipment can father a child. Evidence of that is all around us, in half-empty homes and in the increase in babies having babies.
But dads ... real dads ... now that's something to shoot for.
I never really had a dad. At least not the kind of dad I ever wanted to be when I grew up. I had a father instead. In fact, I had two fathers, one natural and one substitute. Neither one of them ever really made the rank of dad.
Father No. 1 left us when I was 2 years old. After three children (we were 1, 2 and 3 years old), he'd decided he really didn't want to be a father, let alone a dad, so he went home to his parents.
Father No. 2 came along soon after and I give him credit for marrying a woman with three young children. Not a lot of guys out there willing to do that. As it turned out, I wished he hadn't been so willing. He was a terrible father, dad and human being who would eventually die a horrible death, rest his rotten soul (good that's off my chest, eh?).
Looking back, I don't think either one of my fathers knew what they were doing when it came to fatherhood. Their own fathers were just as miserable as they were, which is why most shrinks suggest there is a pattern when it comes to those things.
Dr. Phil wasn't around in those days and all dads had to go by was Ward Cleaver. I loved Ward and always wished my father was like him. When I became a father I discovered it was impossible to be like Ward and that Ward probably had some serious unresolved issues. And his wife June reminded me of one of those Stepford Wives, suggesting that she may have even had some problems with painkillers, which is why she was always smiling, even when Beaver poured sugar into the gas tank.
Alcohol didn't help my stepfather's efforts to become a dad. He was what they refer to as a “mean drunk,” someone you wanted to steer clear of when he was drinking. My Uncle Bill, by comparison, was a happy drunk. We'd wait for him to finish a six-pack and hit him up for $20. You had to be resourceful in a house with no real dad.
I took notes in those days, writing down all the things I would do differently if I ever was a father. At the top of the list was hitting. A dad should never hit his children. I'm not talking about a light swat on the fanny, either. I'm talking about slaps in the face and punches to the belly, the kind of thing fathers go to jail for these days.
Back then it was OK to smack your wife and kids around. “Trouble with the old lady,” the cops referred to it as when they'd come to the front door after a neighbor's call. “Having trouble with the old lady?” they'd ask. “Just try to keep it down.” And then they'd leave.
Nurturing is also a good thing for a dad-in-training should work to develop. As a kid I loved baseball a LOT. I'd sleep with my mitt and when I got a New York Yankees baseball cap I didn't take it off for three months. When I told my stepdad I wanted to learn to pitch he took me in the backyard and threw the hardball as hard as he could. “Catch it, you sissy!” he'd yell. When I started crying he tossed the ball over the fence and stormed inside.
That, my fellow fathers, is not a nurturing attitude. I made a note to never do that.
“So how should he have handled it?” you ask.
Let's rewind.
“Hey, Dad,” I say. “I want to pitch this year. Can you come out and show me how?”
“Sure, son. Let me put down this gin and tonic and we'll go out back.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“OK, son. You wind up like this and you rotate your arms and legs this way.”
If you are self-centered, fatherhood is probably not a good thing for you. You may want to get a vasectomy, or a good supply of protective devices. A good dad needs to recognize that life does not revolve around him and that these children he's responsible for are like flowers. They need warmth and love. And I've never met an impatient gardener. Not a good one, anyway.
When I became a father — almost 25 years ago now — I realized that it was going to be a lot tougher than I thought. Right off the bat our baby was a screamer. We had to feed her goat's milk because of her sensitive tummy and when her tummy hurt she'd scream so loud it would rattle the walls.
It was unsettling at first, until I discovered that if I put her on my belly and rubbed her back she would stop crying. We spent many nights on the couch tummy-to-tummy and it was during those quiet nights that I realized how special this little thing was and how much she would depend on me for many years to come.
I also realized that I had a lot to learn and that I really didn't know a whole hell of a lot about fatherhood, let alone how to be a good dad.
I made a lot of mistakes along the way, but I think I got better with each one (I have two daughters and a son). I had lunch with my oldest daughter (she paid) last week and she gave me my Father's Day card and gift. On the front of the envelope she wrote, “DAD.” Inside, decorated by a pair of good-sized shoes (“Nobody can fill your shoes” it read), my daughter wrote this: “You are a wonderful dad and I love you so much!”
I had finally arrived.
So happy dad's day to all the dads out there. And to all you fathers ... keep working at it.
There is nothing more rewarding in life than looking across the table at a beautiful human being and knowing you had something to do with that.
Jeff Ackerman is the publisher of The Union. Contact him at 477-4299, jackerman@theunion.com, or 464 Sutton Way, Grass Valley 95945.
