How to be a dad
The Tommy Tiernan column
There are few things in this life as sweet to me as kicking ball with me kids. Doesn’t matter what age they are — just the to-ing and fro-ing of catch and pass is a delight to me. If it’s the only thing that I ever got to do with them, it’d be enough.
Maybe it’s as much as I can handle — anything more emotionally or psychologically complex would have me stressed out and floundered, but I’d be happy to do it with them for the length of their lives. When they’re 40 and 50 and 60, I’ll be 90, calling them into the yard for a quick game of passing.
It can be hard these days to see through the mist, and to fully understand the obligations of fatherhood. Like, what are we actually supposed to do? Friend, confidant, life coach, pal?
Hogwash! Role number one for a dad is, I suggest, to ‘get money’. You can build whatever pyramid of fathering you want on top of that foundation. Men of previous generations understood this very well. Not for them, the ego trip of individuality. No. Throw the harness on, more like, and get behind the mule in the morning and plough. And be grateful for the fact that the opportunity is afforded to you. Many’s the man that’s crossing hell and high water, risking life and limb in order to get the chance to provide a living for his family.
Women provide as well. I know that. Sure, aren’t half the ladies of the land burning both ends of themselves trying to make ends meet? Haven’t women historically always lifted shovels of one sort or another and breastfed at the same time? Walking home from the well with two hyperactive wains hanging out of you, and a 10-gallon clay jug of water on your head. Oh, the women of the world don’t need to be told about work...
And if a woman wants to stay at home and look after the kids, sure isn’t that enough to be doing? Have you ever tried it yourself ? It’d run you ragged. Women who work in town sometimes look down on the mammies who stay at home. “I mean, what does she do all day? Phuck all, as far as I can see!”
Well, give it a lash if you like and I guarantee you this — you’ll be running out of the house if you get half a chance.
“Anything, I’ll do anything! Jesus Christ, housework is phecking endless! And no one gives a shit about you, either… Just as an experiment, the other day I cleaned the inside of the oven with my face, and no one even phucking noticed.”
“Ah love, I thought it was some class o’ that spray tan you had on you.”
What am I good for as a dad, you see? Emotional advice? Well, you can’t get swimming lessons off a fella that’s afraid of water. Best to keep your mouth shut on that stuff, Tom. The best you can hope for as a father is to be seen as a kind of Uncle Cop. Benevolent, but, nevertheless, still an authority figure. You’re not in charge, but you can swing a few things for them every now and again.
Should I not be giving advice to my kids about stuff ? I once asked a group of women whether or not they thought a teenage daughter would like a few wise words from a dad about dealing with boys — you know, sex stuff.
Well, the scream of horror at the thought of it nearly deafened me. No !!!!! That’s the last thing they want. They had thoughts of me saying things like, “You can never grab it too soon love, and whatever you do, don’t be dilly-dallying when you get there”.
No, they don’t want that.
My father gave me great lessons in selflessness. Lessons I still haven’t learned. I saw him five days a week going out the door; year in, year out, working at a job that he may not always have enjoyed. I saw him ask nothing more for himself other than a few quid for a few pints. And I saw my mother, torn asunder from storms inside in herself, cook dinner and wash clothes every day of her life.
I can provide shelter for my kids. A place for them to come if they want to. A place where everything will be OK.
You’re not their friend. They have enough friends. Shelter doesn’t follow you around. Shelter you can’t get away from is called prison. We are the idiot generation of parents who wanted to be pals with our children. Our need for their approval nearly suffocated them.
They don’t want you hanging out with them. It’d be as weird as them hanging out with your friends. Imagine you and your pot-bellied, middle-aged associates are heading into town for the relief of porter and moaning, and you bring your nine-year-old with you: “He’s good crack lads, I swear. Do the dab, Josh, do the dab.”
It’d be as odd as you calling round to see one of your son’s playmates. Ringing the doorbell. “Is Jack here? Just wondering if he wanted to have a go on the Xbox with me?” “He’s eight.” “I know, yeah, but I just got the new Fifa update, and it’s class.”
There comes a time then when you’ve got to let your kids go. And if they don’t come back to you, they don’t come back to you. Please God they’ve enough decency in them to turn up when you’re old, and walking round the house talking to the cutlery, just to make sure that you’re alright. But you cannot hope for much more than that.
As a dad, all you can say is, “I’m here... if you need me, I’m here. I’m always here.”
“You’re not in charge, but you can swing a few things for your children every now and again”