A Most Important Proclamation

When I was about six years old, my Dad walked me to primary class. We passed a man in the ward who nodded at the baby girl in my dad’s arms and said, “Wow. Four girls. I guess you’ll be going for baby number five soon.” My Dad, without hesitation replied, “Four girls — it’s perfect! I think we should stop while we’re ahead. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

I filed away that memory in my mind, and while seemingly insignificant to a little six-year old girl, it burned its way into my subconscious in a most profound way. It was one of many little moments that encapsulated how my Dad made me feel. I knew I was wanted, and that my sisters were wanted. Not only was my dad OK with not having sons, he thought girls were a blessing.

Dad was a man ahead of his time. He was present for the birth of all four of his daughters in an era when that wasn’t en vogue. He teased that he would only participate if the birth happened in black and white, like the movie he saw in childbirth class. Somehow he managed to survive the full-color, live action version anyway. He proceeded to happily change diapers, rock colicky babies, and chase squealing toddlers down the hallway while playing “Daddy-monster.”

As we grew up, our Dad was the “fun” dad, creating silly nicknames for all of our friends and rough-housing, playing disco freeze, or throwing hundreds of pitches so we wouldn’t be the last ones picked during baseball in PE. My father was the parent to go to for help with science projects and math homework. As a piano tuner, he was often home in his shop in the afternoon, rebuilding piano actions while looking out the window onto the patio where we mastered our ultra-sweet 1970’s roller skates and yelled “look at me!” over and over, to which he never seemed to get bored with. Then there was the playhouse he built for us, complete with dutch doors, a loft with a ladder, electricity, a drinking fountain, and red shutters with heart cut-outs. He was great with details like those shutters, always making everything special.

Looking at my childhood through adult/parent eyes, I’m stunned by the amount of patience he had with us. He included us in his yard-work, jumping us up and down on the garbage can of leaves. He put us in his shop to sort nails and bolts. I remember the big, foam covered stools in his darkroom where he used let me perch and watch his photos magically develop. I remember how he would eat anything I baked and tell me it was delicious (even when it wasn’t).

Over the years my sisters and I did learn a few key tidbits that could effectively annoy him. He hated it when we played Little House on The Prairie and called him “Pa”. So, of course we called him Pa all of the time just to see him try to put his foot down unsuccessfully and pretend to be angry. The only time he really seemed to take a stand was refusing to let us have a dog, even when we begged. I can hear his threat to this day, “You can have a Dad, or you can have a dog!” (Given that as adults, we are all dog lovers, it says a lot that we kept good ‘ol Dad around.)

Somehow, my Dad survived the drama that comes with four daughters. When I was very young and would be punished, I would sit under the desk in my room sobbing, and my dad would find a way to squeeze under there with me and listen to my sad stories. When I was fifteen and at war with my mother, I could talk to my Dad who would listen and empathize without taking sides. I can’t remember receiving criticism from him, and he rarely gave advice, unless it was about how to vote. He is the only person who was ever able to coax me to vote republican, and while that only lasted for one brief year in 1992, I have to admit that it was quite an accomplishment — one that nobody else can claim.

Growing up in a mostly female environment, my Dad gave me a huge gift. He taught me that men can be tender, caring and nurturing. As I grew up and moved out of the house, I never liked hanging around the egotistical, the testosterone-unbalanced, the tough guys. I wasn’t comfortable around men who yelled, who controlled, or who were disingenuous. I was always attracted to the emotionally available, the quietly confident, the gentle souls. It was familiar to me. It served me well, and instinctually led me toward another one of the greatest fathers of all time — my husband Dan. I know that not everyone is blessed with a childhood that included a Dad like mine who was present and loving and nurturing. Yet my experience tells me that not only is it possible for men to hone these qualities, it is both natural and divine.

On days like today, when I reflect upon the fathers I know and love, I read these two sentences from the Family Proclamation, and I scratch my head, “By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children.” Something doesn’t add up there! Such definitions of parenthood completely miss my mark of accuracy. Where would the world be, without men who believed it was their responsibility to nurture their children?

I for one, am grateful for parents — grateful for my father – who took on nurturing as his personal, divine responsibility, despite the social norms of his time. So today, I celebrate Dads everywhere who are present, caring, and loving. I know you’re out there, and that you make all of the difference. Your influence weaves through your children’s psyche in a most profound way. It’s not a proclamation written in words, published on paper and distributed through official channels for the world to see. Rather, it’s written in the tiny moments of Fatherhood that happen when nobody else is looking. It’s published on children’s hearts everywhere as they maneuver the world. It’s distributed through the legacy that each grown child shares with their own children. Beyond official proclamations and traditional gender roles, that personal influence – the way that you interact with your children and the way they feel when they are with you – will end up being the proclamation that proves to matter in the end.

Tell me about your Dad. . . what makes him loveable?