One of the pleasures of being put out to pasture—I mean being retired—is the time and freedom to read all the pop psychology and relationship articles that come floating across the social media on my computer and phone. There is a ton of it out there on every subject imaginable. A recent one that caught my attention was about the six hobbies that point to a man being a “great dad”. Looked like a challenge to me. Like any self-proclaimed “parent of the year”, I was curious to see how I stacked up to the author’s premise.
The writer of the article claims that how a man uses his free time while parenting reflects much about his character and approach to life. The author stated that if a man had any of the six hobbies that his children were raised by “a truly exceptional man who prioritized quality time, growth, and emotional well-being.” The guy laid down a gauntlet and dusting off my “World’s Best Dad” trophy and shirt, I rose to the challenge.
The first hobby . . . cooking. I cooked while my children grew up . . . especially when their mother was gone. It was a matter of survival. They are all still alive. I could doctor up a box of mac-and-cheese, throw in a frozen pizza, grill cheese sandwiches, scramble some eggs, and even serve some cereal. I’m not helpless in the kitchen, I am just not the sort of chef the guy was referring to in his article . . . I cooked to survive. And my children survived. I was no fancy chef, and I would say that cooking is my favorite thing. Strike one!
Gardening was the second hobby. Beyond taking care of the lawn and mowing the grass. Gardening is not my bailiwick. When it comes to gardening . . . planting flowers, vegetables, and what-not . . . that is my wife’s domain. She plants; I clean up the mess. It has been that way since the day we married. Years ago, when the children were starting middle school, it was decided that the family should have a garden. A family decision. So, I plowed a plot. We planted corn, watermelon, pumpkins, zucchini, yellow squash, and tomatoes. There was great enthusiasm as we planted . . . then—POOF—it disappeared. The children got busy . . . they got bored . . . discovered that it was work. No one wanted to water the garden, weed the garden, hoe the garden . . . do any gardening! In the end the results were dismal . . . a couple of skinny squash, pickle-size zucchini, no tomatoes, one itty bitty watermelon, and a couple of forlorn pumpkins. What was meant to be a family activity and less in growth, patience, and perseverance became a lesson in swearing. Thankfully the wife dedicated her focus to flowers after that and my swearing subsided. Strike two!
Hobby three . . . writing poetry. As a kid I wrote a lot of poetry. Really bad poetry . . . really bad. I stumbled across a whole bunch of it recently while cleaning my den. Thank goodness I was alone. It was embarrassing. It has gone off to a better place thanks to the garbage collector. It’s gone and no one will ever experience that trauma. But I am not taking a strike on this one. Even though I wrote terrible poetry, I wrote a lot of other stuff. Being a minister, one has a tendency to write . . . write lots, especially sermons. In a 40-year span of ministry I have written a minimum of 2,080 sermons, 480 newsletter columns, countless eulogies, and many wedding devotions. Since my college days I have enjoyed writing. The kids know it. Though it was not poetry, my children saw my love of writing. This is no strike . . . it’s ball one!
For some reason this author thinks that DIY (do it yourself) projects constitute a hobby . . . that DIY teaches skills, problem-solving, creativity, and the importance of perseverance. This is hobby four. Again, this is not in my wheelhouse despite my willingness to give anything a shot. Where others have patience to tear apart, repair, and rebuild . . . I have duct tape, super glue, wire, and garbage. Do it yourself is torture and the family learned early on that it was best to leave the house when “Dad” had to put something together. Creativity came in the new ways swearing could be done. The greatest lesson learned is that there are people out there in the world who do these things for a living to keep people like me from losing sanity. Well worth the money spent. Strike three!
Hobby five was knitting. I can barely tie my shoes. Plus, I shouldn’t be around sharp objects. Knitting looks complicated. It involves math . . . counting in particular . . . and it goes beyond what I can count with my fingers and toes. It is too difficult. I will leave the knitting to those who have the skills, desire, and ability to count beyond 20. For me it is never going to happen. If being an exceptional father means having knitting skills . . . well, strike four!
Finally, hobby number six is reading! I love to read! As our children grew up, we encouraged them to read. We even let them stay up an extra 30 minutes past bedtime if they were reading. Our house was filled with books—all sorts of books. They were piled everywhere. And in turn they have encouraged their children—our grandchildren—to be readers. One can never have enough books to read. Finally, one I can hit out of the ballpark . . . HOME RUN!
The final tally takes a little of the shine off my mythic “dad of the year” image I had of myself. I figured I scored 25 percent on this great scale of extraordinary as a parent. I guess I was not as special as I thought—cooking, poetry, DIY projects, knitting, and gardening are not my hobbies, not even close. Thankfully I was saved from being skunked by the fact that I love to read and write. According to this challenge I could probably use some parenting classes.
Nowhere in that author’s article were the things I was good at: humor (especially sarcasm), teasing, embarrassing my children in front of their friends, coaching, playing catch, telling “dad jokes”, watching endless sporting and school events, getting thrown out of sporting events, attending concerts and school plays. There was nothing about encouragement. Nothing about loving them even when they were unlovable. Staying by their side when sick. Not killing them when they did something really (and I mean, really) stupid. Being present in their celebrations and their heartbreaks. Being there for them. Laughing. Crying. Loving. Especially loving. Always loving. I think these things go a long way in being an extraordinary parent . . . extraordinary dad.
Overall, I think I did okay as a dad. Could have been better. Could have been worse. I am sure that the jury is still out. I am sure how I am viewed as a father by my children changes as they grow older . . . as they parent their own children. In the end, all of us who have been parents did and continue to do the best that we can. We have given our “best and worse” to the ones we love . . . especially our children. I know I have. My children still invite me to family gatherings . . . allow me access to my grandchildren. I do not need some writer telling me what makes an “extraordinary good dad”. The reward and confirmation has always been in the eyes of my children. I’ve still got it . . . yup, the older I get the better I was . . . “dad of the year”!
