It has become an increasingly futile exercise lately; an endless temple tapping, lip nibbling harassment. To arrive at a suitable conclusion regarding the “Essence of Dad” seems like a distant dream to me now, and yet I still found myself vigilantly searching for clues from the small cohort of Dads that stood before me over the weekend. A flotilla of Dad’s joined some friends and I for a few days of father-son bounding, real ale and International Rugby Football Union. That’s the official line anyway. I’d imagine that we youngsters also relished a rare opportunity to gather together a unique super-species of man and simply drink in their effervescent, conspicuous Daddery. Uniting Dads that haven’t met before and reviewing the ensuing behavioral trends is a sociological study I’m convinced could unlock the secrets of our gender. Perhaps if I could just identify a formula or nail down some sort of Dadding doctrine I thought. With this information I could square away the final facets of my own stuttering masculinity and discover what impact, if any, being raised almost exclusively by women has had on my ability to mend broken things and casually dispose of arachnids.
The essence that I’m speaking of does not refer to my dad in particular, and I’m certainly not referring to the way that he or any other Dad smells. While I don’t doubt that Dads across the land frequently radiate undertones of leather and wood, I doubt that Calvin Klien are cornering reticent, bare-chested fathers in sterile laboratories and swabbing them for inspiration. I can picture the campaign - “CK Dad: Release your inner Pragmatist”. Nah, not likely. Actually, I’d wager that most Dads haven’t even got time for smelling; they’re too busy trying to find practical solutions to emotional problems.
The weekend was a success in most – but not all – respects; the lads provoked voracious ale consumption and the Dads obliged, growing surprising rowdy towards the end. Tales of yesteryear were exchanged, music and movie tastes were debated (and mercifully agreed upon) and goodbyes seemed heartfelt. However, answers to key questions were allusive; conclusions were not arrived at and the only trends that became apparent related to the presence of robust action-slacks and stout multi-purpose sandals. It seems that a Dad outside of his natural habitat becomes an altogether different beast. Put a Dad in his natural environment (this will vary from Dad to Dad) and perhaps then clues will begin to emerge. Take for example my girlfriend’s Dad. I’ve seen him in his natural environment many a time – his garden, attending to practical duties on a Sunday morning. At this time he’s a like a city-fox…just a second….I’m not suggesting that he’s a semi-feral, flea ridden, uber-rodent who chews on the limbs of East London children, not at all. My comparison refers to how he might briefly catch your eye before hastily disappearing to attend to affairs elsewhere, seemingly just wondering around but actually in the midst of a pre-set, almost instinctive pattern of movement. He might glide past the kitchen window holding a rake or appear in the lounge, as if from nowhere, holding something that should have batteries but doesn’t; his eyes hungry for answers. At these times he is of course in The Zone…..The Dadding Zone!
I’ve seen my own dearest Papa in The Dadding Zone many a time – cautiously winding his watch to establish fully accurate time and date information, ensuring he is on time and on-guard at all times; the concentration forcing his tongue out between his lips. When I was little he was always in The Zone; Dadding diligently across every conceivable landscape. I see it less so now; not because he cares less or resents it, but because the playing field has leveled. He’s still in The Dadding Zone most of the time though, even in the absence of his children; it seems that once you enter you cannot completely leave.
As I have declined/evolved (delete as applicable) from a young man into becoming simply a “man” my Dad has become an increasing real person. As we have grown, his once “natural Dadding environments” have changed – his house, the car, the side-line, the riverbank, my mum’s bad books, the swimming pool, the promenade. The contexts of these environments have evolved and their functions have changed; all thanks to the inevitable growing older of his son. I’ve started to see my Dad as an actual person now; a fallible, questionably principled, waveringly stable human; just like everyone else. I’m thankful for it. His status simply as “Dad” seems at odds with the overwhelming reality that he is another person, pioneering across the ups and downs of a less than thrilling ride through modern masculinity and traditional bull sh*t. I couldn’t see any of this when I was young; I was too busy being cared for, advised and entertained. I was a busy boy.
 |
| Dad Jeans: Casual, smart, practical.... something for everyone! |
These days I am still a busy boy and I see my Dad a handful of times a year, it’s always a joy. He is still my Dad in every sense but we connect in different ways. His apparent transformation in my eyes has not undermined the bound between us. Despite the apparent obligation to connect with each other with noisy, obvious ceremony I have never felt as close to him as I do these days; often sitting opposite one another in silence for hours on end, heads down, hands out as I mercilessly destroy him at chess.
They’re a remarkable bunch the Dads, and that’s putting it lightly. Their “Essence” can’t be bottled and passed around for us to consume. We can’t tap into their rich vein of experience, wisdom and confidence without doing the required leg work. Sure, we can point and laugh at their pragmatic haircuts and their fondness for sensible, weather-conscious shoes, but we….hang on…actually, let’s just do that. Let’s just take the p*ss out of them while we still can. Our time will come I know; it’s only a matter of a time before all the irony disappears out of my fondness for Phil Collins. Sometime in the near future I hope to have a son of my own. One day, many years from now, I will express an opinion about rock music or wear terrible jeans to a family function. He will look up at me over the rim of his pint glass, and utter those sacred words: “Oh my God Dad, you’re such a t*at”. I will have made it, I will finally be there, I will have entered and will never fully leave – The Dadding Zone.
