In Celebration of Fatherhood
This Father’s Day, take some time out to consider just what makes the dads in our lives so special.
It was our first check-up with the paediatrician. I was the only man in the waiting room with four other women and their babies. Our eldest son was on my lap.
“So, how is the breastfeeding going?” the receptionist asks one woman. “Very difficult, but I am determined to get it right,” she says.
“I never struggled at all,” says another. “From day one my breasts were as big as beach balls and the milk was absolutely flying out.”
“I’ve been struggling this past week,” added the third. “My baby just won’t take the breast. I’ve got great nipples, so I don’t understand it.”
It was then that I knew I had arrived. I was no longer seen as a man. I had joined that exclusive group, moved into that inner circle where things like breastfeeding and inverted nipples can be discussed in front of, and sometimes with me, with gay abandon. I was a father! Even better, I was a dad. As someone wise once said: “Any man can become a father, but it takes something special to become a dad.”
In a world where mothers kiss the einas better and turn us all into civilised human beings, dads make sure little boys know how to deliver a right jab to a bully on the playground, and that little girls have the kind of 24 hour protection not even presidents are afforded. As young boys, our dads were the ones who turned the very orderly process of going to bed into a mammoth wrestling session, where a pillow is held hostage until you hand over the purple dinosaur – unharmed!
Dads were there when we bought our first car, like a 1972 yellow Beetle. They were the ones who on a Saturday morning would drop everything to help us install a radio in that Beetle. And sure, they were also the ones who promised us they had done this a thousand times before. But you still kept wondering why every time you turned the volume button your windscreen wipers came on.
And dads just get things. They are the ones who tell their sons: “My boy, never sit in the front row at a bachelor’s party. There is bound to be a stripper, and she will want to make you part of her act. And you don’t want that.”
Or they are like Bakkies Botha. The Springbok hard man once famously revealed that when he is done ripping New Zealand or Australian rugby players limb from limb on the field, he lets his young daughter paint his toenails pink.
What makes dads so good at giving advice is that all the dumb, stupid, idiotic, beautiful, wonderful and crazy things children will do in their lives, dads have already done.
So when your dad says to you, “I’m not trying to spoil your fun, but maybe hanging upside down while trying to drink cream soda through a straw is not going to turn out the way you expect”, then pay attention.
And dads want to be involved. When a young man wants to go to his first bar for a beer, Dad wants to be the one to take him. He wants to do the same when a young girl goes on her first date. But he tends to compromise here, taking the young man into the kitchen for a brief “chat” beforehand. And if a dad has done his job correctly here, the first time that little girl will be kissed is when she says “I do” in a church.
And enough of this sissy, politically correct nonsense. Face it – moms are there to nurture and care. And dads are there to make sure that boys can stand on their own two feet and become gentlemen, and if need be, dish out a controlled dose of violence at the appropriate time, and to never raise a hand to a woman other than to caress her cheek. And that girls grow up to know exactly what to look for in a good man.
Dads understand children, because by becoming dads they fulfil one of their greatest desires – to be children again themselves.
So when Mom is frustrated as hell with a little boy who is crawling around on all fours and growling like a lion, and who won’t take his toothbrush to brush his teeth in the morning, Dad gets it.
As a dad knows perfectly well: “Honey, he can’t take the toothbrush. He is a lion. He has paws, not hands. Duh!”
Story by Michael Vlismas
