Three times this week, I’ve been reminded of the power of fatherhood — the highs and the heartbreaking lows.
A week ago, I attended my last daddy-daughter dance with my wonderful young lady on my arm. Next year, as she goes off to middle school, new horizons will open to her — but the elementary age limits of this annual father-daughter dance will no longer be one of them.
So it was with an extra dose of poignancy and awareness that I picked her up for our date. I took her out for dinner, then we arrived early at the new James Lintott Elementary to find the dance already underway.
As always, I was heartened to see so many fathers there with their young girls, as well as a good contingent of grandpas, uncles and other father figures.
This annual dance is one of my favorite scenes. Dads, some wearing suits, vests and fancy hats, others in plain work clothes and baseball caps, but all looking like kings to the daughters on their arms.
And they are kings.
These guys are by far the most important men in the lives of their daughters. Many of the dads saw their daughters immediately dash off to dance and giggle with their friends for much of the night, but I noticed these girls always checking on their fathers, wanting to know that they were there.
“Daddy, watch me!” I’d hear.
Sometimes a guy would bust out an old dance move from his glory years — maybe a Moonwalk or a Macarena — and you’d watch his daughter’s eyes widen with amazement, quickly turning to delight and pride.
The old high school anxieties about whether you’re cool enough are irrelevant when you’re a dad. Of course you’ll never be cool — and yet, no one will ever be cooler.
A few days later, driving home through Napavine, I saw a young dad with a toddler at his side, walking past Mayme Shaddock Park.
That little guy was racing down the sidewalk, running at breakneck speed for a guy only a couple of feet tall. You could tell he was having the time of his life. He’d probably only been walking for a few months, and here he was, tottering through a wide open world. Fully independent (but knowing his dad was right beside him if needed), this tiny fellow was experiencing what, to him, was life at its most exhilarating: Running down the pavement with dad.
As I passed by, I caught a glimpse of the dad’s face, and his expression was very familiar. I’d seen something similar in the faces of the dads at the daddy-daughter dance. I could see contentment. Watchfulness. Satisfaction. Ease. The knowledge that, in this moment, he was doing nothing less and nothing more than what he was made to do.
Just walking down the road with his toddler. Just walking into a dance with his daughter on his arm.
In a complex world, this is simple and good. This is important.
And a few days after that, I found myself alongside my daughter again as she and classmates toured the state Capitol on a field trip. I was only there for a half hour or so. In chatting with her and her classmates, one girl apparently felt keenly the lack of her own dad. I don’t know her story (and it’s not mine to tell), although I could make some guesses based on hints she dropped. Within a few minutes of my arrival, as she watched me holding my daughter’s hand, she broke me open with these words: “I wish you were my dad.”
A simple phrase, uttered by a girl who deserves nothing more nor less than a decent father who is there in her life.
I don’t know her family’s circumstances, nor why her father is not involved. I’m sure there is a story there, maybe many stories.
But what I do know is that this father, for whatever reason, is missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime, the only job he was really meant to do.
Being a father and a husband isn’t always easy. In fact, it’s often very hard. But it’s also very simple. You show up, and you stay there. You do your best, and pick yourself up to try again when you fall short. You show your sons and daughters what it means to be a man, even as you’re learning it yourself. You’re strong and humble. You’re the star of the dance floor or the wallflower, but you’re there.
My heart breaks for this little girl, and for the dad who isn’t in the one place he truly belongs, doing the most important job in the world for her, a job that no one else can do, a job that can change the world.
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Brian Mittge is a husband and father living in rural Chehalis, showing up every day, for better or worse. Drop him a line at brianmittge@hotmail.com
