At the end of my first pregnancy, my dad -- a chain-smoking, vodka-drinking, hot sauce-shaking, black licorice-eating man's man -- warned my husband not to go near the labor and delivery room: "It'll ruin your sex life for good." Men belong in the office or on the golf course or in the fishing boat or at the bar.
The way fathers today participate in parenting baffles my dad as much as health food and smoking bans. Any time he "babysat" my brother, my sister or me, we ended up burned or stitched or bruised. When I call, he usually says, "Here's your mother."
My husband ignored my dad's advice and joined me for the birth of our first son. The experience wasn't as amazing as we'd hoped. (When the nurses encouraged my husband to "grab a leg," he collapsed onto a chair and hid behind the sports section.) I tried to fight the urge, but I finally broke down and asked my mom to be with me.
Since my brother, my sister and I are grown with families of our own, we enjoy making fun of my dad.
He aspires to eat "like a Viking," ordering rare steak when he's out or frying Spam when he's home. He dances to Steve Tyrell as if bees are attacking. He never walks away from a game of gin or backgammon until he's won, even if that means staying up all night. After he beat my 4-year-old at Memory, he said, "I play to win!" His expressions -- "Your ass sucks buttermilk!" or "You'll be dead for a long time!" confuse us. But, maybe, his unique way of parenting is something to celebrate.
My dad was and still is the boss. What he says goes. We never mistook him for a friend. Instead, we worked hard -- very hard -- to please him. Earning his respect and approval required effort. Sometimes we worried if anything would ever be good enough.
I wonder if dads of today wouldn't benefit from some of that old-fashioned firmness. What's so bad about pushing your kids to reach higher and work harder? My dad's "I'll give you something to cry about" kept us in line. He taught us to look people in the eye and shake hands when introduced. He reasoned an A-minus was not acceptable because he believed we could earn an A-plus. Slacking was not an option. Actions had consequences.
He'd demand we sit with him, "Talk to me, Pro." He explained to my sister and me what boys really want -- "To get down your pants." He warned us that if we ever did anything stupid, he'd better hear about it from us, not someone else. He made sure we knew how lucky we were to have one another. And he adopted his father's motto: "The best is yet to come."
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Near the end of my second pregnancy, my mom went to New York to be with my sister and her new baby. Then it happened. I went into labor early. "No," I cried to my mom on the phone, "I'm not having this baby without you." Her answer? "Call Dad."
I shook my head. I cried harder. Laughed even. Contractions intensified. Fear crept in. I called him. "Dad," I did my best to sound in control, "just wanted to let you know we're on the way to Magee."
When we arrived, my dad stood waiting. The doctor raced into the room.
"Tip!" He shook my dad's hand.
"Hey, Doc! Great shot out of the bunker on 18."
They continued to chum it up over golf. I finally interrupted to ask about my baby's delivery. And my dad stayed. Right there with me. He supported my decision to have a C-section and helped us name our new little guy. More surprisingly, he spent a ton of time in the hospital over the next couple of days. (My husband was busy at home with our 2-year-old.)
Every morning, my dad whistled as he strolled down the hall, delivering donuts and coffee to the nurses. He entered my room with Gatorade, bagels and gifts. He sat right next to my bed, even when I nursed. He made work phone calls as he held and snuggled the new baby.
We talked. Real talks -- "Who's your best friend?" "What's the secret to 38 years of marriage?" I had never felt so close to him.
Of course the minute my mom returned from New York, he slid right back into his usual way of being. There were golf trips to take, fish to catch, poker games to win.
First Published: June 20, 2010, 4:00 a.m.
