When my 10-year-old son campaigned for weeks—”Dad, let’s make a skateboard! Come on, it’ll be so cool. We just need some wood, right? Please?”—I wasn’t exactly eager.
“I don’t have the skills,” I replied, hoping to dampen his enthusiasm. What I really meant was, “I don’t have the interest, and I think skateboarding is a bit too risky for you.”
On a quiet Sunday, the topic came up again. I was reading, and he was bored—his friends were off becoming future sports stars or visiting grandparents.
“Come on, Dad! We never do stuff like this together. It’ll be fun!”
An internal voice groaned: Here we go again. Dad guilt started creeping in. Maybe I’m overreacting; after all, a lot of his friends have skateboards, and they’re still alive. Wanting to be a “good dad,” I offered a compromise.
“Why don’t you come with me to Home Depot while I run some errands? We’ll check out the lumber section while we’re there.”
Our pact was sealed with our traditional family oath: “A deal’s a deal.”
At Home Depot, we wandered into the lumber section. The scent of fresh-cut wood filled the air, and I decided that if I was getting dragged into this, he could at least do some of the work. “Go ask that salesperson for help,” I said, pointing to a man who looked like he could build a house blindfolded.
Usually, my son was shy in situations like this, but to my surprise, he walked right up to the man. I hung back, watching them discuss our “project.”
“Skateboard, huh?” the salesperson said, glancing over at me. I nodded.
“Half-inch plywood should do it, but you’ll need to buy a big piece—more than you need,” he explained.
I nodded again, trying to manage my son’s expectations. He had big ideas—curves, fancy ornamentation—way beyond our abilities.
“Bending wood is tough without special tools,” the man said, “but a simple skateboard is a great project.”
Not liking where this was heading, I added, “Honestly, painting a wall without making a mess is about my limit. Skateboard construction is… definitely not in my wheelhouse.”
He smiled. “Look, I was a carpenter before this. When my kids ask for help on stuff like this, I go for it. You never know where a project like this might take them. Maybe you’ve got the next Bill Gates on your hands.”
I stood there, a psychologist—someone who advises people on positive family interactions for a living—getting a pep talk from a guy in a lumberyard. His sincerity made it hard to brush off. But the truth was, I didn’t want to build a skateboard, and I didn’t want to feel guilty about it either. Who wants to be the dad who stops his kid from becoming the next Bill Gates? Then I thought, Could Bill Gates even build a skateboard? Silly question, but it led me to a conclusion: I didn’t need to be a carpenter or skateboard expert to be a good dad. I wanted to connect with my son in ways that played to our strengths—not force us both into something we wouldn’t enjoy.
So, we never built that skateboard. Instead, I bought him one for Christmas. It had a cool deck with an alien abduction scene on it. I even bought us matching alien T-shirts.
When he opened the skateboard, he just stared for a second, then yelled, “Whoa, this is awesome!” He didn’t care that we hadn’t built it from scratch—it was exactly what he wanted. For him, it wasn’t about woodworking or fancy curves. It was about the cool factor and, I think, about having something we shared.
When I wore my alien T-shirt, strangers would sometimes stop me and ask, “Have you been abducted?” I’d smile, they’d nod knowingly, and it gave me plenty of skateboard stories to share with my son. He loved those stories.
Later, when he asked me to build him a ramp, he insisted, “Come on, Dad, it’s way easier than a skateboard! We can find instructions online. It’ll be fun.”
Though he was clearly annoyed by my concern, I realized these moments—whether they involved skateboards, ramps, or alien T-shirts—were about more than the projects. They were shaping us both, even when I felt clumsy or out of my depth.
I didn’t become the dad who taught him how to build a skateboard or a ramp, and in retrospect, that seems just fine. Now that he’s almost 40, with a family of his own, I know it’s not about the things we make—it’s about the time we spend together, even when it’s imperfect or messy.
I haven’t always known the perfect way to bond with him, and I haven’t always shared his interests, but I’ve always tried to be there—to witness his growth, support him, and find joy in our unique father-son rhythm. I’ve mainly done this by teaching him about love, kindness, hard work, the importance of a good shared meal, and the value of laughter as a survival skill—often using personal anecdotes, jokes, and The Far Side cartoons.
These days we don’t need skateboards to stay connected. His current hobby—and a potential business venture—is home-grown coral reefs. It’s not something I ever imagined he’d be into, but at least it doesn’t involve bending wood.
One day, when I asked how his coral was coming along, he grinned. “Dad, remember when I wanted to make that skateboard? I thought it was gonna be so easy,” he said, smiling with a kind of nostalgia. “Maybe you knew what you were doing all along. I really loved that alien skateboard and T-shirt.”
I just smiled. In the end, I’ve learned that being a good dad isn’t about mastering the projects or hobbies of the moment. It’s about showing up, over and over, in ways I never imagined—so he knows I’m there, no matter what.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: iStock
