All my children's fathers

Each of my four children has a different father.

The first, a boy, got By the Book Dad, the books being "What to Expect the First Year" and "What to Expect the Second Year," Dr. Spock having gone out of fashion by then. No milestone was anticipated or marked without obsessively consulting these chronological bibles of child-rearing. When our son lifted his head before the book said he should, we wondered how soon MIT accepted early admissions. When he couldn't manage to get a spoon to his mouth by the month specified, we agonized over whether we should institutionalize him immediately or risk him somehow getting his head stuck in an electrical outlet.

Our second child, another son born two years later, got Hey, Maybe This Isn't Rocket Surgery After All Dad. We sometimes went days without consulting the books. We trusted our instincts more, having noticed by then that even the smallest of humans are more resilient and forgiving of their parents' inadequacies than we thought. He certainly got less of our attention but thrived despite it, or maybe because of it. Plus, he probably got to eat more unidentified objects off the floor.

Our third child was our first daughter, which made everything new again. I mean, stop-the-freaking-presses-new. Let's call her father Back Off, We Got Us a Girl Here Dad.

Our fourth and last child, born nine years after our first (on Father's Day, by the way, 16 years ago Saturday), was another daughter. She got Kinda Exhausted Been There Done That Dad.

A word about daughters: I told myself before having one that I would treat them no differently than I treated my sons, for I was a modern man. But this is silly. Of course my daughters have me wrapped around their fingers, and they know it. They take advantage of it, as they should because you work with what life gives you, but they're not excessively manipulative about it.

So, yes, I've been "easier" on my daughters than I was on my sons. My sons likely noticed and perhaps they carry a grudge over it, but I do not apologize. The only thing I can say to my sons is I hope they have daughters one day so they will understand.  

Now quit whining, boys, your sister needs something.

I don't know which of my children's fathers was the best one. No doubt the "perfect father" would somehow balance the awe and excitement of first-time dad with the experience and calm of the veteran. But it doesn't work that way. So, though each of my children got a different father, I think -- or at least hope -- each got the one they needed. If not, it'll have to be sorted out in therapy one day. 

In any case, although I've raised four children -- yes, with mom's help, but sorry, this ain't about her, not today -- I realized a long time ago something else goes on, too:

Kids, not books, teach men how to be dads. Each of mine taught me different lessons, or in some cases different nuances or spins to the same lessons. Many of the lessons are hard-earned, some so agonizing you're not sure you or your child will survive them. I can look back on many of the hardest lessons and laugh now. I look back on some -- thankfully, only a few -- and still don't laugh, and may never laugh. And that's OK, too. 

Thankfully, children are patient, forgiving teachers who grade on a generous curve and who also are tough as nails.

Although three of my kids are grown and the fourth thinks she is, I know they're not done teaching me. Not by a long shot.

I am, frankly, in awe of all of them.

So, all of my kids' fathers feel pretty blessed today. I believe they shall celebrate with a nap. Maybe four of them.