A life in letters: Fatherhood

My relationship with our two daughters has always been close. Until 2005, when Rebecca was 11 and Bethany 9, my wife Lorna worked evening shifts at the Council’s Burnside Care Home, not far from our house. She was on a four days on/four days off rota, working either from 4.15pm – 9.30pm or from 4.45pm-10.00pm. I looked after the girls on the evenings Lorna was at work, supervising their play, sharing with them the tea which Lorna had kindly prepared in advance, doing bath time and story – and in later years superintending homework – before encouraging them with varying degrees of success to climb beneath their duvets. 

This was tiring – I remember falling asleep one night sitting on the sofa with a baby in my left arm and a bottle in my right hand, and cartoons on the telly. But I regarded caring for the girls as an immense privilege, and still see it this way.
I have about a million memories of Rebecca and Bethany over the years. I remember Lorna and the girls collecting me from work at 4.00pm on the evenings she had a shift, and quickly filling me in on what was for tea on the way back to the house where she dropped us off before heading for Burnside.

In fact I remember, before Bethany was born, collecting Rebecca from the nursery at 4.30pm and pushing her round to the house in her buggy. Daily routine: here’s the steps and here’s the gate; here’s the path and here’s the door; here’s the lock and here’s the key; turn the key and IN WE GO!

Bath time. Both kids in soapy water. I am singing a silly, habitual song to the shower – trade name Mira (or Miralex). ‘Myra!  Myra!’ I’d bawl. ‘Come down and see us.’ The girls devised the toe game: I was supposed to pay the imaginary lady who sat on the toilet seat for toe eating rights, and then pretend to fish for toes under the bubbles and gobble down any I discovered.

And then Bethany, always appreciating company, devised the ‘get away’ game. I’d kneel down beside her bed as she lay under the covers, talking to her. She would put her arms around my neck, holding me prisoner, and periodically release them for milliseconds, during which I was to try to escape. Her hands seldom separated long enough for me to win freedom. And I remember lying in bed beside Bethany, nodding off as we chatted sleepily and being abruptly prodded into a state of alertness.

One of the girls’ favourite picture books was Cowboy Baby, which I read for them repeatedly in an excruciating pseudo-Texan drawl.

I remember watching one of the girls running in to Lochardil Primary School for an evening event, wearing trainers with sparkly lights on the heels. (I think I had over-indulgently bought these when Lorna, sensibly, would have preferred the cheaper model without the illuminations.) But as I stood on the pavement watching the flashing lights make patterns in the darkness as feet ran over tarmac, it seemed a very beautiful thing, speaking eloquently of joy and freedom.

And my wife and I share many later memories of accompanying the girls through secondary school and beyond as they became adults and friends.

To me, coming to fatherhood later than many, having these two daughters was a great privilege. When they were born I was secretly glad that they were both girls – I guess I had bought into the traditional idea that had they been boys they would have looked to me as a role model in football and other male pursuits, and I knew I would have failed them badly. But in fact had they been boys, I would have modelled for them my own take on being male, and that would have been more than adequate.

Lorna has often pointed out, and rightly that as a father I err on the side of over-indulgence. Thus for example, after I’d got the girls to bed at the end of an evening spent playing outside with dolls tea-sets and lashings of runny mud, I’d spend an hour or so tidying up the garden. To me (rightly or wrongly) this opening up to them the gift of joy by letting the mud flow freely was a privilege.

But Lorna is right - my over-indulgence did produce a reluctance on my part to discipline our daughters – in fact a difficulty in knowing how to discipline – and this was probably my key failing as a parent. I was also aware of wanting to be liked by the girls, and I tried, not always successfully not to let this unhelpful need shape my relationship with them. On occasion I was tempted to prolong hugs with one or other of the girls because at that moment I was the one who needed to feel arms around me, but I almost always drew back.

My other failing as a father has been that I have not always been sufficiently decisive and strong. I remember once we were at the Braehead Centre in Glasgow with another family, and I took Bethany and her friend Sally to explore the small fairground out the back. (Another thing I deeply appreciated as a father was the way in which other parents entrusted their kids to my care – it was good to be trusted.)  There was a sign on one of the rides saying that it was a fast ride, and that people climbed on board at their own risk, but Bethany and Sally were keen to experience the worst it had to offer.

I could see as soon as the ride picked up speed that the girls were upset as they were thrown against the frame of the pod they were sitting in by the force of the rotation. I should have intervened, and asked the guy at the controls to bring the ride to a halt, pronto, but in my embarrassment I rationalised that it would soon stop in any case. I am not proud of putting my own comfort before the clear needs of the girls in my care.

All my fathering, done in close collaboration with Lorna, has been driven by a few fundamental principles. Other fathers would have different items on their list, but here, unashamedly, is mine.

I have always been comfortable with using the word ‘service’ to describe the father’s role. ‘Service’ meaning not doing for the girls what they should more properly do for themselves (although I admit I have been guilty of that) but ‘service’ defined as ‘walking with them, and facilitating at some personal cost their journey to adulthood.’

I have always recognised the importance of not being too busy to spent time with Rebecca and Bethany, to do things with them when that is what they wanted, to listen to them when they needed a sympathetic ear. I am sure that, despite the time I did spend with them, they would have wished me more available than I was when they were young, but I believe that in general I have been an accessible father.

Another key principle of my fathering was to seek to be real and vulnerable. This means that while recognising that there were things which it wasn’t appropriate to share or fully share with children, I would try to be real with the girls insofar as was consistent with their level of maturity, trying not to pretend, not to hide, not to manipulate. I guess my daughters must be the judges of how far I succeeded in this. I know Bethany will complain that my policy of honesty led to me revealing to her at a rather too early age the truth about Santa Claus.

I suppose the parental style of most parents is influence to some extent by the style of parenting they themselves experienced. Some will replicate good parenting practice, others will in reaction to bad experiences adopt an opposite approach to their own parents. This is certainly the case with me. The best of my fathering reflects what I saw in my own dad’s approach.  But I felt burdened by the expectations my parents seemed to place on me, and in reaction to this I had no desire to impose expectations on Rebecca and Bethany. I did make it clear, always, that I would be disappointed if they did not persevere, seeking to fulfil their potential, to choose joy, but that I wanted to let them discover the unique people they are, to play to their strengths, to run with the energies which awaken them.

I am convinced that parenting is about getting to know the people who have been entrusted to us as they get to know themselves and helping them through challenge and reflection on their journey to self-knowledge. Our daughters must judge the extent to which I was with them on their journey, and the extent to which the sentence above is idealistic hogwash!

And the other way in which I reacted to my parents’ parenting style was in not putting pressure on the children to choose Christian faith. Rebecca and Bethany were aware that Lorna and I are people of faith, we discussed faith with them from time to time, they attended church with us and had plenty of fun, but also regrettably saw some of the tensions which can arise when Christians get it wrong. Lorna and I sought to model before the girls’ faith, grace and love. I tried to show in age-appropriate ways that it’s OK to disagree with other Christians, OK to have doubts and questions. I have sought to live before them a life of honest faith, leaving them free to make their own choices and welcoming with joy every sign of love, grace and self-giving in their lives.

Over the years there were wobblies and strops and challenging times, but I can honestly say that I don’t have any truly bad memories of my daughters’ growing up. (Or is that my idealism speaking?)

I love these fine young women deeply. At times I have failed as a father and undoubtedly have not been as wise and decisive as I should have been. But d’you know what? In general I reckon I’m a good enough dad.