I was half-pushing, half-holding my three-year-old son, Benjamin, on his
inaugural bike trip around the farmyard last Wednesday afternoon when an
older farmer from the village pulled
up in his 4x4. I always feel self-conscious when I am observed playing with my
children in the middle of the day by males of the older generation. I feel
as if I have been busted skiving, especially when the man fixing me in his
gaze is the type who you know, just by looking at him, has never taken a day
off in his life. But part of the informal charter for the naturalisation of
English citizens in Ireland states that you have to engage in extensive
chats with anyone who crosses your path, so, slowly and carefully, Bento and
I pedalled over to say hello.
After a few minutes spent agreeing about the weather, the man pointed at Bento
(who was rocking impatiently on his stabilisers) and caught me by surprise
when he said: “Spend as much time as you can with them when they're young.
“I have three sons and I never saw them when they were growing up,” he said
with the unexpected emotional frankness that rugged farmers sometimes bestow
on unsuspecting blow-ins from the city. “I was out every morning to do the
cows before they were up, and I didn't get home until they had gone to bed.
The youngest is 17 and we're just getting to know each other.”
His eyes were damp, and for a heart-stopping moment I thought this grizzled
farmer with calloused hands and mud on his boots might be about to start
weeping right there in the middle of the farmyard. To realise too late that
you have missed out on the life of your children because you were too busy
working is a terrible waste of an existence. Sadly, it is an all-too-common
situation for men.
Apologists for emotionally and physically absent fathers often say that men
are not programmed to look after children. But even the most committed
hunter-gatherer still would have found himself with a lot of downtime at
home. The real culprit has been the pressure on men to work from dawn to
dusk since we shifted to an agrarian society several millennia ago.
I was lucky. My father was unusual for his generation. He worked from home and
spent a lot of time with me. He had a deep-seated loathing for things such
as football and sport, but an amazing talent for creating adventures out of
thin air. I recall going on “boys together” outings with him, the dump being
a particular treat. Once we even went, just me and Dad, to Milan. My abiding
memory is of him ordering the most enormous bucket of ice cream for me in
the square outside the cathedral.
I suspect that in creating a lot of fun for me as a child, with games and
fantasies and stories, my dad was showing a determination to do things
differently from his own father, Christopher. Although they were close in
later life, my dad never made any secret of the fact that his own childhood
was miserable, principally defined by being sent off to boarding school at
the age of 7, or, “being abandoned on that f***ing doorstep” as he described
it to me just a few years ago. Christopher was fighting in the Second World
War for the first six years of my father's life so he can scarcely be blamed
for it, but he seems to have remained emotionally distant for a long time
after he returned.
I've been lucky too which allow me to spend as much time with them as
possible. The amazing thing is that while as recently as 30 years ago this
would have been considered rather eccentric and hippy-dippy, these days very
few of my male friends feel differently. On Father's Day, especially, there
is a realisation among my contemporaries that being a dad is, quite simply,
the single most meaningful component of our lives. Even those who are forced
- or choose - to work grindingly long hours are still emotionally involved
with their children, helping to choose schools and calling or being called
by them several times a day on the mobile phone.
But as Bento and I said goodbye to the farmer and set off for one more loop of
the farmyard, I reflected that you'd never catch me working a 90-hour week.
It's not that I'm lazy - it's just that if you don't have time to teach your
children how to ride a bike, then, quite frankly, what's the point in having
them?
How fatherhood changed me
Daniel Finkelstein
Times writer and father of Sam, 9, Aron, 7, and Isaac, 2
“Just you wait.” That's the irritating phrase parents use when they try to
explain to child-free couples about having children. And they go on using it
when they've two and you only have one. The Just You Waiters always tell you
about the sleepless nights, and how difficult it is to get out the front
door, and how you are always missing one shoe when it is time to go, and how
your life is no longer your own and well, it's all true. But what they can't
tell you is that when the children are yours you will find that somehow it's
all worth it. That's not something you can have explained to you. You have
to experience it for yourself
Pete Paphides
Times writer and father of Dora, 8, Eavie, 5
There's a low, constant hum of pointless guilt. When you're not spoiling them
you worry that you're depriving them; when you're not depriving them you
worry that you're spoiling them. Only in death will this be resolved. Also,
it doesn't matter how many felt-tip pens you buy them. What they really want
is the expensive set of highlighters on your desk (that you will have to
keep rebuying, because their hypnotically luminous allure makes thieves of
even the most well-behaved children).
Lawrence Norfolk
Novelist and father
What was tough was pretending not to swear or smoke, or pretending that taking
someone else's toy was an indictable offence. The first casualty of
fatherhood is irony. But I'm hopeful of recovery.
David Blunkett
Politician and father
What you're never told is that fatherhood is “for life”. Your children never
want you to think of them as children, but to you they always are; whatever
their age and in whatever circumstances, you remain responsible and always
available. Gradually they adopt the same thought about you.
Sam Leith
Columnist whose first child is due this week
Being a father - I write as someone who has an estimated three days left of
not being one - means, in my mind, being a proper grown-up for the first
time. You are no longer the centre of your world, because you're not allowed
to be: that's a burden, a release, a thrill.
Michael Gove
Shadow Secretary of State for Children, Schools and Families, and father of
Beatrice, 6, and William, 4
The one thing no one prepared me for was having to fly my son's Star Wars
X-Fighter spaceship into the nursery, complete with sound effects. They
should teach that in antenatal classes.
Alexander McCall Smith
Novelist and father of two daughters aged 22 and 25
Fatherhood teaches you very quickly that, first, you are out-of-date and
old-fashioned and, second, that this applies particularly to your clothes.
Nobody told me about what an effective cure it would be for selfishness.
Suddenly, your own needs are nothing - the children's needs are everything.
Nothing else teaches you that lesson so quickly, and effectively.
Nick Clegg
Politician and father of Antonio, 7, Alberto, 5, and Miguel, 3 months
No one tells you that history repeats itself and before you know it, you start
acting like your own father.
Philip Howard
Times leader writer, father of three and grandfather of six, aged from 4 to 19
It's a wise child who knows his/her own father. Children come as a surprise to
a father, pleasant or unpleasant. In my case delightful. Bacon reckoned that
children were impediments to great enterprises, either of virtue or
mischief. For me they are hostages to anxiety. Virtual vertigo when they
walk too near the cliff. Sympathetic examinitis: shall we revise quadratic
equations once more, Tom? Paternal gamesmanship: please don't try that crazy
sweep/pull until you have scored 20. But the anxieties are worth it.
Children are a delight and a promise for the future.
Mackenzie Crook
Actor and father of Jude, 6, above, and Scout, 18 months
Being a father means having to know everything. My dad knew everything and
now, according to my son, Jude, so do I. Here are ten questions I have had
to answer in the past 18 months:
Daddy, can you unmake a cake?
Do some people have fat legs?
What's the messiest place on Earth?
Can I throw my sock at the television?
Can a goldfish breathe in a cup?
What are lemons made of?
Do caterpillars have bodies?
Who invented shampoo?
When's next week?
How do threadworms get oxygen from your bum?
Are people edible?
Did the Elephant Man ever get any post?
Tim Rushby-Smith
Times writer and father of Rosalie, 4
No one told me that I would be too knackered by the evening to want to go out,
even if we do get a babysitter. No one told me that I'd never be able to
look at a cardboard box again without wondering what I could turn it into
with a breadknife and sticky tape. No one told me that my idea of an outfit
for a four-year-old girl would be met with snorts of derision from mother.
No one told me that I would have to wrestle with Dr Seuss at seven in the
morning. Everyone told me becoming a father would change my life. But
nothing could have prepared me for it.
Simon Crompton
Times writer and father of Chiara, 9, and Eathelin, 6
What I wasn't expecting was the mysterious metamorphosis that creeps up on
you, day by day, year by year, long after the nappies have gone, making you
see yourself more and more as a dad, and less and less as a son. Ten years
ago, Dad was my dad. Now it is me: I think like a dad, talk like a dad, feel
like a dad and - possibly most alarming - get grumpy like a dad. It's an
almost werewolf-like transformation, particularly the grouchiness. It's made
all the more guilt-inducing by the unconditional love that your growling
evokes, and which it wondrously seems unable to dent.
Mike Atherton
Former England cricket captain, Times writer and father of Josh, 7, and Alana,
3
Everybody concentrates on the negative aspects of fatherhood - the sleepless
nights, the worry - but unless you are hit with the most awful bad luck and
your child suffers an illness, it is the most wonderful experience. Nobody
talks about the joy of watching your children develop; of watching their
minds open to the possibilities around them and the joy of shared
experiences. Last week, I took my son fishing for the first time and watched
him play in an under-9's cricket match. It was lovely observing him consumed
in activities he enjoyed. Ultimately, parenthood is about ditching your
selfishness.
