Fatherhood

We know Father Time and talk about being respectful of one’s time.

America dubbed George Washington the Father of “our” Country. I feel no need to honor that title.

“Our Father, who art in heaven.” Lately, I’ve found myself contemplating the art of fatherhood here on earth.

Fatherhood is an honorific. It must be earned.

A father is defined as a man who provides care, guidance, protection, and support in a parental role. We use the word beyond family as well. We speak of the Father of Modern Medicine, the father of an idea, the founder of a movement. The title is reserved for originators, builders, and guides.

The leader of the Catholic Church is called Father.

To me, the title should be reserved for the people who devote their time, energy, and talents to ensuring their children become the best humans possible. The people who, when they fall short, spend time getting back on track, learning from the parental mistakes we are all bound to make.

When I look at my sons, I can humbly accept the moniker: Father.

My sons each call me something different as a term of endearment. For Marcus, it’s usually Dad. For Max, it’s always an enthusiastic “Pops!”

I’ve written often about my own father, the man who taught me work ethic and the value of family. As I reflect on my childhood, back when he was still Daddy, I remember gifts bought by Mom, cards proclaiming him the world’s greatest dad, ties he probably didn’t need, and bottles of Brut cologne.

He wasn’t a sentimental man. I’m sure he would have said, “Don’t buy me nothin’.” But in his own way, he was grateful.

Today, I am grateful too.

This morning we ran the Race Against Hate 5K. I came in third—not overall, just against two young men in their late twenties and early thirties. I’ll take it.

Tonight, I had dinner prepared by hands that first learned their way around a kitchen as boys and now prove that real men can cook.

My sons are the validation of my membership in a club that some claim but never truly join.

If you’re known only as a baby daddy, or recognized solely as the person who pays child support—or doesn’t—work harder. There’s plenty of room in the club. The door isn’t closed. But Father is an honorific. It should be earned.

Anything less is disrespectful to the men who put in the work, made the sacrifices, admitted their mistakes, and showed up anyway.

Happy Father’s Day.