By Craig Idlebrook
The guys who fear becoming fathers don't understand that fathering is not something perfect men do, but something that perfects the man. The end product of child raising is not the child but the parent.
~Frank Pittman, Man Enough
My daughter and I were alone in the hotel pool when I heard the door open. I didn't want company. Clara was learning to swim and I pictured her fledgling courage being washed away by some child's cannonballs.
The guys who fear becoming fathers don't understand that fathering is not something perfect men do, but something that perfects the man. The end product of child raising is not the child but the parent.
~Frank Pittman, Man Enough
My daughter and I were alone in the hotel pool when I heard the door open. I didn't want company. Clara was learning to swim and I pictured her fledgling courage being washed away by some child's cannonballs.
As the soldier walked through the door, I never saw a body so built for trouble. He was a solid six feet, but his rippling physique and obvious military bearing made him look taller. His limbs hung loose and powerful like a panther's, calm but ready to spring. There was a large, angry scar on his stomach. His right shoulder was adorned with a tattoo of the Marine Corps insignia, while his other arm displayed less-friendly artwork.
Despite his frame, I felt at ease. Why? His eyes were gentle and he held the tiny hand of a jabbering little girl.
The soldier eased into the cold water without a flinch, and then helped his daughter down the steps. She needed help; her legs were tiny and she was encumbered with a pink inner tube. My daughter stopped splashing and looked with obvious envy at the tube.
As soon as the girl's spindly legs were submerged, she began to kick furiously and babble in a language I didn't understand. Her father gently encouraged her to swim to him, which she did with the maximum amount of syllables. When she met his goal, he wrapped her thin frame in his large arms. His skin was healthy but pale, while hers was the color of stained wood.
My daughter, acclimatized to the soldier and his daughter, began once again to launch herself off the steps in a fearless and, to this point, futile attempt at swimming. It was my job to keep her from drowning.
But I was torn. I had been travelling with Clara for a week and a half and had rarely seen a father solo with his daughter. Used to being the chromosomal abnormality in Mom groups, I tended to want to embrace other hands-on fathers.
Eventually, an opportunity presented itself. My daughter, finally tired of swallowing water, headed to the hot tub. She sat on the top step with her feet dangling in the water and waited patiently while I went to talk to the soldier. She was smart enough to know that parents need socialization to stay happy.
"On vacation?" I asked him lamely, thinking of no other opening.
"Kind of," he said as he dutifully threw his daughter across the pool. While she paddled back, he explained that he was on leave from Iraq. He took the time to take a trip to the States with his daughter, who usually lived in Thailand. He was no longer with her mother, so it was just the two of them. "She doesn't speak English, and I don't really speak any Thai, but we do the best we can."
She tapped his leg and he threw her again. I mumbled something inconsequential and shook his hand, then went to join Clara. I wanted to spend the whole day bonding with the soldier about fatherhood, but I knew that it would be too selfish to continue the conversation. His time with his daughter was too short to ask him to share it.
My daughter and I outlasted them. I was still busy catching Clara as the soldier wrapped up his chattering daughter in a towel that seemed to engulf her. Despite the towel's bulk, she ran to the door. He waved to me as he followed her.
Long after my daughter went to sleep that night, I thought about the soldier and the courage it took for him to be there with his daughter. The early years of childrearing are fraught with rejection for fathers, as Mom is equated with comfort in a baby's mind. During those lean times, many a father turns in his keys to his child's heart, accepting a reduced role as a provider.
I am not so blind in my adoration of fathers to assume that this soldier is a perfect parent, or even is a supportive co-parent. But to persevere in a long-distance relationship with a child who speaks a different language, that's nothing short of heroic. The soldier's story reminds me that it is not whether we always are there for our children, but that we keep trying to be there for our children. Parenting is about stealing moments of grace to love our children in a sometimes broken world.
Despite his frame, I felt at ease. Why? His eyes were gentle and he held the tiny hand of a jabbering little girl.
The soldier eased into the cold water without a flinch, and then helped his daughter down the steps. She needed help; her legs were tiny and she was encumbered with a pink inner tube. My daughter stopped splashing and looked with obvious envy at the tube.
As soon as the girl's spindly legs were submerged, she began to kick furiously and babble in a language I didn't understand. Her father gently encouraged her to swim to him, which she did with the maximum amount of syllables. When she met his goal, he wrapped her thin frame in his large arms. His skin was healthy but pale, while hers was the color of stained wood.
My daughter, acclimatized to the soldier and his daughter, began once again to launch herself off the steps in a fearless and, to this point, futile attempt at swimming. It was my job to keep her from drowning.
But I was torn. I had been travelling with Clara for a week and a half and had rarely seen a father solo with his daughter. Used to being the chromosomal abnormality in Mom groups, I tended to want to embrace other hands-on fathers.
Eventually, an opportunity presented itself. My daughter, finally tired of swallowing water, headed to the hot tub. She sat on the top step with her feet dangling in the water and waited patiently while I went to talk to the soldier. She was smart enough to know that parents need socialization to stay happy.
"On vacation?" I asked him lamely, thinking of no other opening.
"Kind of," he said as he dutifully threw his daughter across the pool. While she paddled back, he explained that he was on leave from Iraq. He took the time to take a trip to the States with his daughter, who usually lived in Thailand. He was no longer with her mother, so it was just the two of them. "She doesn't speak English, and I don't really speak any Thai, but we do the best we can."
She tapped his leg and he threw her again. I mumbled something inconsequential and shook his hand, then went to join Clara. I wanted to spend the whole day bonding with the soldier about fatherhood, but I knew that it would be too selfish to continue the conversation. His time with his daughter was too short to ask him to share it.
My daughter and I outlasted them. I was still busy catching Clara as the soldier wrapped up his chattering daughter in a towel that seemed to engulf her. Despite the towel's bulk, she ran to the door. He waved to me as he followed her.
Long after my daughter went to sleep that night, I thought about the soldier and the courage it took for him to be there with his daughter. The early years of childrearing are fraught with rejection for fathers, as Mom is equated with comfort in a baby's mind. During those lean times, many a father turns in his keys to his child's heart, accepting a reduced role as a provider.
I am not so blind in my adoration of fathers to assume that this soldier is a perfect parent, or even is a supportive co-parent. But to persevere in a long-distance relationship with a child who speaks a different language, that's nothing short of heroic. The soldier's story reminds me that it is not whether we always are there for our children, but that we keep trying to be there for our children. Parenting is about stealing moments of grace to love our children in a sometimes broken world.
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