Below is an article I wrote for Fathers Day and ran in the June issue of Parent Wise Magazine. Enjoy:
Fathers Day is fast approaching and I’ve managed to survive the first 5 years of fatherhood. It’s been 100 times more difficult than I had ever imagined, but 1,000 times more rewarding. I’ve tried many times over these years to create genuine, fine moments of fatherhood; Mr. Cleaver, Mr. Brady sort of moments. What I’ve realized is that the planned, orchestrated moments of fatherhood are not the finest moments. It’s the little things, the really little things that fathers do that are the most memorable. It’s time and effort, something we all can afford.
I, like many fathers of my generation are overly cautious. Our parenting is well planned, we think we are ready. We have our careers underway, we met with the financial planners and we’ve orchestrated their schooling well. I throw down for everything “on ice”; Elmo on Ice, Disney on Ice, Princess on Ice, Hasslehoff on Ice, you name it. I buy my daughter everything she asks for. Everything that’s almost guaranteed to make her a certifiable brat! This does not necessarily make a good father. It’s taken me time to realize this. It’s very funny when I think about some of the finer moments with my father when I was young. I’ve realized that kids don’t really know what’s it’s like to be poor or broke. They just want time with their dads.
I distinctly remember going to my father’s apartment with my sisters, not long after my parents divorce. I can still picture the apartment. Very simple, red brick on the south side of Kansas City. The building was mostly full of Russian immigrants. I didn’t think much of it at the time; it just was what it was. I do recall that it had a pool behind it, but looking back, it really looked more like a prison yard. My father had almost no furniture. It didn’t really look as if anyone lived there. When he had us for a weekend, we would gather around his t.v. to watch the Kansas City Royals play. We would of course turn down the sound and listen to the coverage on the radio, just as any good baseball fan would. I don’t remember a couch being there for me and my sisters, but I remember the carpet squares, all different colors. My father made mention of it years later. He had found a carpet store in the neighborhood that would give out free sample carpet squares for you to take home. He would go by there every few days, look for a different sales person and ask for some carpet samples. When he got home he would use two sided tape and started from the middle he slowly carpeted the floor, one square at a time. We didn’t care that they were all different colors, we actually thought it was kind of fun. I distinctly remember a game that we watched from those carpet squares. We had tried to go to that game. It was jacket day at Kauffman stadium. We were supposed to be there. On the rare occasion my dad had enough money to take us all to a game it was usually on jacket, hat or jersey day. That way, he could provide some pretty fancy clothing for us as well. We piled into his red Beetle convertible to catch a game. I remember waiting in line for hours to get our free jacket. It started to rain, causing a rain delay and it appeared as if we might be just beyond the final free jacket to be given out. Word spread through the line and fights started to break out. My dad, fearing for our safety and most likely his own, took us home. I remember drying off from the rain in that little apartment and enjoying the game just the same on tv. My dad popped a grocery bag full of popcorn. That’s how you do it with four kids. I don’t think any of us cared that we didn’t get to go to the game that day, we were just happy to be with our father.
It was a rare occasion that we actually did go to a game. I had memories of going all the time, but it was probably just a handful of times. I guess my dad sold more shoes or something those weeks. We would always eat before we went, concessions were just too pricey. Dad would escort us quickly past the souvenir stand. I don’t think we ever asked to stop. We would always sit in right field. That was just “our spot”. I had no idea until I got older that those were the cheap seats. This is where all the long haired, shirtless drunks were. They would shout profanities at the opposing team… and by the end of the game, each other. Typically by the 7th inning or so, we would see security escort at least one of them out and the entire section would “Boo” the security. We were the underdogs in right field and the Royals were underdogs in 1976, so we were double underdogs, especially against the Yankees and the drunk, sun burnt guy deserved to stay. It also wasn’t until later in life that I realized the other sections were completely different. I had no idea that people wore shirts and something other than cut offs. The kids were well groomed and had every souvenir and food item imaginable. It would have been quite an event to sit behind the batter with the quiet fans, but I wouldn’t trade all of that for that for the rowdy section or that day on the carpet squares, soaking wet, eating homemade popcorn.
I have hundreds of memories like this. Reflecting back, it wasn’t the expense, the event or the prize. It was time and effort from dad. He did what he could and clearly gave us his undivided attention, when he could. If only I can remind myself of that as I’m bombarded with entertainment options for my daughter. Sure, I love Mario Lopez on Ice as much as the next guy, but I’ll plop down on the carpet with my daughter and share a bag of popcorn instead. I hope she has a fond memory of it 30 years later, just as I do.
