On Not Having A Father On Father’s Day
The first Father’s Day after my Dad died brought waves of grief.
That came as a shock. The waves of grief are often shocking, but we’d never been all that big on Father’s – or Mother’s – Day in our family. There was a belief instilled in us by my Great-Grandmother Edith – a tiny woman, and not to be crossed – that if you needed a special day to honour your mother or father, you weren’t doing life right. More specifically from her perspective, there was a bit in the middle of the Ten Commandments that needed your attention.
But you’re reminded on Father’s Day – and in the lead up to it with endless pokes and prods from retailers – that it’s assumed the “normal” state of affairs is to have a father. We’ve managed to hold onto a “Mum, Dad and kids” view of families despite a lot of evidence suggesting this traditional setup is not universal.
Obviously, there’s someone like me who is old enough to not have parents around – this is the natural order of things.
But I look at our wider family and see all kinds of arrangements. Stay-at-home dads, fathers who live overseas, two-mums-no-dad, fully-invested dads you can count on, dads who aren’t and you can’t, and fathers who see their role as provider rather than nurturer.
My Dad saw himself that way when we were kids. He was old-school, not a changer of nappies, and would have described an evening at home with us when our mother was out as “babysitting” as though this wasn’t his job. His job was to bring home the bacon and he was happiest – and most at home – when he was at work.
Dad owned a clothing factory which meant everything to him. He saw that his role as employer included pastoral care. He and my mother went above and beyond at times to make sure the machinists (this was in the days before women’s refuge) had safe places to be. He created a sense of family amongst the workers, and was possibly less at ease at home with us.
He and I argued. A lot. We were on opposite sides during the 1981 Springbok Tour. When my brother and I would go home for visits from university, he would bring out a bottle of South African wine and, knowing we were both boycotting that country’s products, cheerfully offer it and pretend to be surprised when we declined. Sometimes he was hard to like. Sometimes I was, too.
We got a second chance at liking each other when I was in my thirties and my parents moved to Auckland to be close to me and their two-year-old granddaughter. We could still be scratchy – I felt like he didn’t get me, and also he didn’t get me – but I watched him be the best kind of grandfather to my daughter. He had time to push her on a swing – he built the swing – and was fascinated by the way she learned things, and how her tiny hand fitted inside his.
We became friends. Built a new relationship. Told each other stories no one else was all that interested in but we were, and worked each other out. We were not so different in many ways. I liked to think he’d mellowed. He probably thought I had, too.
Not everyone who doesn’t have a Dad will feel a sense of loss on Father’s Day. There are some pretty crappy ones out there, and I’m sorry about that. But I feel lucky that we got to a place where I miss mine.