What I've learned over 20 years' of Father's Days
As Father's Day looms, I am reminded how excited my children used to get about it. I can still trace their development through the cards they sent over the years: the early colourful scribbles on a scrap of paper; the heart-felt, home-made cards about being "the world's best dad"; the hastily-bought, fart-themed cards of their teenage years. There have even been gifts along the way – none better than the large jar of chocolate raisins I received. (The way to this dad's heart is definitely through his stomach.)
Clever marketing ploy or not (my late mother-in-law used to like to remind me that it is only Mothering Sunday that is mentioned in the Bible), there is something magical about being celebrated by one's children. But what I've learned as the years have rolled by is that the biggest joy is in celebrating one's children. Father's Day is an opportunity to reminisce over all the wonderful moments they've supplied – to thank them, inadvertently, for making us fathers.
I will always remember the first time I held each of my children. My first born, Charlie, was just moments old when he was handed to me. I checked he was breathing, counted his fingers and toes, then looked at his face. What a handsome boy! He looked exactly like me.
My younger daughter Esme was in a hurry, slipping out into the world before my wife, me, or the midwives were ready. Ahead of schedule: how she has tackled life ever since.
And Amelia, my middle child. She was a rather alarming shade of blue when she appeared – a baby without breath. The medics revived her, ordered me to strip to the waist, and thrust her against my skin to keep her warm. I remember staring at her in quiet desperation, urging her to breath, not to leave us. I will be grateful every day for the rest of my life that she took a big gulp of fresh air and has kept doing so ever since.
Now my kids are 20, 17 and 15, and I know for a fact that their arrival changed my life irrefutably. The washing machine would never be silent again; the supermarket would download my salary straight to their account (or did it just feel like it?); I would never again have a free morning without a slight feeling of guilt that someone else (most likely my wife, Jo) was having to manage on their own.
When you have three ankle-biters, you need a management system. Jo used to say that being a mother meant you had to be ruthlessly organised so that, occasionally, you could be a little bit spontaneous.
If you are lucky, you fall into a well-honed daily routine that ensures that everyone gets where they need to be, equipped to face the day. As time went by, I found comfort in this routine – and accomplishment. If you get to 7 o'clock in the evening and everyone is tucked up in bed with their teddies, you've done it.
You learn to celebrate the smallest blessings as a parent. A happy return from playgroup, empty plates at dinner time, bathtime without tears. You don't know it at the time, but what you are building is a foundation for a happy life based on these days of happy, regular activity.
Now, as I look back on those early years, when my cards were always home-made and not fart-filled, I realise the days were heaven sent. I also realise that no two were the same. Every single morning presents you and your children with new lessons to be learned.
For example, when Charlie was nine he asked Jo to tell him the truth about Father Christmas. So she did. And then he asked about the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny So she told him. He took a deep breath and said, wistfully, "It's as though all the magic has gone out of the world." And then he rallied and said, "Oh, and what are condoms for?"
I think that illustrates family life perfectly. One day your beautiful daughters want you to squirt them with the garden hose as they prance naked on the grass, the next they are furtively muttering to their mothers about needing a new bra that you're not supposed to know they need. Every day is a new curve of learning. And some days you make a shift from which there is no going back.
The hardest lesson in all this? That after all the joy, the tears, the achievements, one day you have to let them go.
When Charlie was 16 he asked to go to Reading Festival. I was terrified – the same boy had fallen into a bonfire at a party the previous year and ended up in hospital. So I called my friend, Paul, who is a bodyguard, and asked him to go to the festival and shadow Charlie.
"Dude," he said, when he had finished guffawing, "There's 120,000 kids there. It would be impossible."
"So what do I do?" I asked.
"Cut the cord," he replied. "You've got to cut the cord."
Probably the wisest words ever said to a frightened parent – and ones I'm still grappling with, 20 years into fatherhood.
Anyway, it's Father's Day, so that stuff can wait until tomorrow. First: more chocolate raisins please.
The 50 Things: Lessons For When You Feel Lost, Love, Dad, by Peter Dunne, is out now, published by Trapeze, £7.99 from Amazon
