Fatherhood Ball

I am a proud descendant of many generations of fathers. My father John was a father, as was his father - Donald, and his father before him - Erva. Preceded by Harry North, John North, John North, Zachariah North, Edward North, James North, James North, John North, Lord Dudley North, Sir John North, John North, Edward North, Roger North, Roger North, Thomas North, and Sir Thomas De Northwood - born in 1350.

As an interesting side note - the last four generations of North boys were born exactly 25 years apart. 1924... 1949… 1974… and 1999. That means that in the year 2024, my son Zander will have a boy.

I know, that’s kind of a lot of pressure for my son. He’s only got a few years to find himself a woman and make a kid. A boy. My wife does NOT like the idea. I mean… I don’t really care. (I do.) If he doesn’t have a boy when he’s 25 it’s not really a big deal. (It is.) And I most certainly did NOT write out a life-plan for my son that culminates in him siring a boy in 8 years nor do I read it to him in a whispered voice late at night when he’s sleeping. I do NOT do that once a week. Plus, you can’t really pre-determine the sex of your child. (You can.)

I think about fatherhood and I think about numbers and years and generations and the act of passing something down. This is fatherhood!

It’s like this fragile thing we pass along.. like a ball made of rags that gets tossed around and beaten and sometimes, parts of it fall off.

Some of those pieces you definitely don’t want to pick back up. Some pieces you’d LIKE to have fall off… forever... never to be a part of your fatherhood ball. You think of what’s been handed to you…like “there’s no way that piece of fatherhood is gonna stick, it’s from the old man! It’s outdated and SO last generation…” But then… you open your mouth when your son has pissed you off and there it is. “Get off the goddamn video game or I’ll come down there and yank every single cord out of the fucking wall!” My dad actually never said fuck. That was a piece of the fatherhood ball I added.

There are some pieces of the fatherhood ball that you add out of sheer desperation and confusion… from your own lame uninformed collection of fatherhood fabric pieces. You try desperately to form something streamlined that makes sense. These pieces of fabric are held together with fluids. Blood from a scraped knee… tears from when I couldn’t find the right words or the patience... sweat from playing hard in the heat of Summer… and vomit. Hot dog vomit. The grossest smelling thing that ever came out of my son.

Eventually… I figured out that in all my sloppy, neanderthal attempts at getting it right… the forming of this thing... this idea that I will someday (a few years from now) pass on to my son... this idea of what it means to be a father... I figured out… that it’s not meant to be perfect or streamlined. It’s because we pass on a chunky, imperfect fabric ball of messy fatherhood that my son will so easily be able to identify the mistakes I made and allow them to fall away...

Or perhaps he’ll keep my mistakes as part of his ball and be reminded to not repeat them. Or maybe... I’ve ruined him for life.

But I don’t think so.

Lately… I’ve been looking at my sixteen year old son who is now taller than me… When I look at him, I think about what a great guy he’s become and I see in him... that he will be a better father to my grandchild than I was to him. And that’s the way it should be.

I’ll leave you with something I wrote to myself, years ago, after I realized that I was being too hard on my son. I ended up laminating it and to this day, I keep it in my wallet as a reminder to be a better father…

I want to be a better father by not reacting with anger or using the harshness of my voice. I need to lighten up and catch myself before I erupt. My son is too precious and dear to use parenting tactics like yelling, fear, angry harsh faces, and “better than you” reasoning. Find more patience, more love, quicker forgiveness. You don’t have to be right and he does not have to be perfect.

Zander deserves the treatment I forward everyone else in the world. He deserves my respect, my calmness, my encouragement. Let go and release my need to control my son.

Recognize the moments where the weight of my need for control is ruining a moment or clouding a connection. Say yes more often. Let him run or make a mess or make weird noises or act strangely. Encourage the kid in him. Remember that he’s just a little guy who wants to play. Help him have fun.

If he reaches out to me, drop whatever I am working on. Zander is more important. Get Zander active. Encourage his artisticness. Find time to paint and draw and work with clay. Make positive memories. Go biking. More nature walks. Play soccer… catch… ball… take him swimming. Read to him. Have him read to you.

Go out to a coffee shop with him and play checkers. Encourage his creativity. Tell him “I love him” more and when I do so - give him a hug.

Always hug him goodnight and tell him good morning before anything else. Make him proud that I’m his dad. Never give him a reason to say “you scare me.” Smile more. Understand more. Love More. Breathe more. Act with love.

I meant that to be just for me.

Something I could pull out of my wallet and read or even just think about when I needed to calm down.

A few months later I was re-organizing my wallet...

When I found this little addition next to it.