Robert Duffer has taught his kids some things and showed them others. And he wants nothing more than to hang on to every moment of those experiences.
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I was glad, yesterday, that I gave in to your demands to jump off the diving board in the deep pool. The lifeguard didn’t mind me standing by the edge, and when you, boy, popped up and doggy-paddled/swam over to the edge the first thing you said, in a spray of water, was “awesome!” Then you, girl, next, Thing 1 and Thing 2, a better swimmer than your brother, said, “Totally awesome!” And you flexed your muscles.
You guys crack me up. Each day you fill me with more joy and life than I can express. Early mornings like these I find myself looking at you with nostalgia and melancholy on what’s passed, and excitement and anxiety at what’s to come. This, the act of writing, is my desperate attempt to hold on to right now.
If life is a journey then this whole parenting experience is one wondrous and eternal road trip. There you are in the rear view mirror, sleeping, drooling, crying, giggling, now you’re awake and hitting each other, making faces at me, playing monkey see monkey do, singing our songs and kicking my seat. The shift is gradual but inevitable to the front, where you’re riding shotgun, then I’m riding shotgun, soon enough I’m in the backseat eager to see where you’ll take me, then comes the inevitable day when you drop me off on the side of the road and continue with your journey.
Dive. Splash. Sink. Breathe.
I’m mixing metaphors.
You guys get it. I didn’t teach you how to dive off the diving board. I showed you there was nothing to be afraid of, and I coached you on leading with your feet, but this, like so many other things, you picked up more on your own.
Understand that whatever I’ve taught you in these seven years of parenting was done in concert with your mother. Understand too that what I’ve taught you and what I’ve shown you are not the same thing.
I taught you how to tie your shoes. I showed you frustration, irritation, impatience. I showed you how to get things done quickly instead of how to get things done right.
I taught you how to read. I showed you persistence but inconsistency, the reward of work, of imposing the things I enjoy on you. And I showed you how to get mad at the letter r.
I taught you how to catch and throw but I showed you exasperation, forcefulness, aggressiveness and addressing fear.
I taught you how to ride your bike and showed you the difference between frustration and failure. When we fall, we have not failed. Only if we choose to not get back up do we fail.
I taught you to be nice to each other, that you’ll be BFFs, that no one will be there like your sibling will. I’ve shown you how to lose your temper, how to be irritated by someone’s something, how to raise your voice, turn your back, go away.
I haven’t taught you much about love but I’ve shown you it is there unconditionally even if it isn’t shown consistently. I’ve shown you nothing is forever, I’ve shown you how to doubt my promises, I’ve shown you the difficulty of relying on other people.
So don’t thank me for being your father. Just accept me for what I am.
Great Article Robert.
How about this. Can I thank you for being a father? Because you’re holding complexity beautifully for your kids. The both/and. It may well be the greatest gift possible that you are reminding us of here. That we are all many things in the same instance. And that good and bad are so very contextual. And that we are human, after all. A gift we can each give to our kids (and to each other).
Contextual indeed, Mark. Thank you. Means a lot hearing it from another dad.