I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be a dad. I’ve been a dad for quite some time, but it’s never been something I put a lot of conscious thought into. There are books out there I could have read, or Ted Talks I could have listened to, that would have helped me be a better father, but I’ve always taken an approach of winging it and letting the kid’s psychologist pick up the pieces.
As far as I know, it has worked so far.
I know that I’m playing the game on easy mode. I have buddies with special needs kids, buddies with way more kids than me, buddies with problem kids, buddies with step-kids who struggle to make a connection. Each has my respect and admiration (although obviously I have never told them this because that’s not how male friends work. We mainly communicate through insults at one another’s sports teams).
When I talk to these dads and see what their fatherhood journey looks like, I see how being a dad can be a hell of a lot harder than we’re usually given credit for. It’s not just a matter of teaching your kids right from wrong, it’s a matter of showing them the difference. Most of the time they’re not even paying attention, but you have to be that example for them, knowing full well that any screw up becomes a moment they’re never going to forget.
It’s a high-stakes game I’ve never really had to worry about playing, because I had three fairly low-maintenance kids, all things considered. They’re all pretty smart, with good hearts and a strong sense of fairness. They’re all tremendous smart asses as well, and occasionally irritating, but genetically that was always going to be in the cards. Whatever lapses I have as a father, they’re pretty forgiving. Especially if I smooth things over with ice cream.
Barry Kaufman and his daughter, Charlie, enjoy ice cream at Shelter Cove Marina during HarbourFest.
Right now is a strange time in my journey as a dad. As of this writing, I am in my ninth day as a father of three teenagers. It’s an interesting phase, one that will last only another 83 days until my oldest turns 20. For those 92 days, my three low-maintenance kids are operating on probably the highest difficulty level I’ve known.
Case in point: As is my process, I abandoned this essay after five paragraphs because I wanted a bowl of soup. Writing is harder than you think, and sometimes chicken noodle is the only muse who will have me. So down to the kitchen I go, before discovering that there are no clean bowls. I quickly discovered that most of our arsenal of bowls was divided into precarious towers in each of my kids’ rooms, ringed by water bottles and Diet Coke cans.
These are things you deal with when you have teenagers in the house. When you have teenagers out of the house, taking their first wobbly steps into the real world, there is a whole different set of pitfalls. Suddenly you have to co-sign for leases on apartments, help with tuition payments and keep yourself on-call if they suddenly need advice at odd hours of the night. You have to tamp down the gnawing fear in your gut that your child is now facing all the dangers and hazards of an uncaring world, from back alley muggers to credit card scams.
But then life gradually cranks up the difficulty. You have to help them through breakups. You have to stay on the phone with them after a minor traffic accident because you can hear the strains of panic setting into their voice. You have to figure out where an extra few hundred dollars is coming from when they have roommate issues that force them to break a lease.
I freely admit I’ve been playing the game on easy mode. But right now, it’s as hard as it’s ever been because the rules are so vague. When they’re little, it’s easy. The things they’re upset about are easy to fix, whether it’s repairing a broken toy or explaining why we can’t have candy for dinner. I think back to when all three of my kids were younger, and I can’t think of any huge crises other than my son’s routine trips to the emergency room for being what doctors called a “human cannonball.” Once he mellowed out and stopped hurling himself headlong into things, it was a breeze.
But then life gradually cranks up the difficulty. You have to help them through breakups. You have to stay on the phone with them after a minor traffic accident because you can hear the strains of panic setting into their voice. You have to figure out where an extra few hundred dollars is coming from when they have roommate issues that force them to break a lease.
It is a completely different proposition, but it has its upside. You finally get to talk to your kids, these small people you’ve known their whole life, as something resembling an adult. You get to see them through the eyes of the world and really take in what great people they’ve turned into.
It can be nothing but heartbreak or it can be nothing but joy. It’s rarely anything in between. But that’s what sets dads apart. We’re the ones who know either end of that spectrum usually calls for a hug, a few practiced words of advice and, in extreme cases, ice cream.
That’s ultimately our purpose. No matter how old our kids get, we as dads are there to give them all the love and mentorship we can, and all the ice cream we need to get them through the teenage years and beyond.