Happy Father’s Day

Don’t you just love June? It feels like a kick-off to the good times. The ‘Friday night’ of the monthly calendar, full of anticipation for the sweet summer ahead. And then there’s the smell. Those sticky buds may be a pain to get off your dog’s paws, but man do they smell good. As the days get longer our social calendars go from zero to busy because we have the sunlight—and therefore the energy—to leave the house after supper. We might even push our bedtimes a smidge past ten, if we’re really getting crazy.

Among the bike rides and BBQ’s, the commencements and retirement parties, there is Father’s Day. Generally overshadowed by its commercially favoured sister-holiday, Father’s Day has historically been celebrated by men gathering with each other, possibly to shoot a round of golf or walk into the woods for a variety of purposes, then venturing home to find homemade cards adorned with crayon-coloured fish and marinating meat ready to be seared on the grill. We might get the rest of the meal ready, but we save the grilling for you guys, because just like swinging the clubs or the axe or other manly stuff that taps into your testosterone-gene, cooking meat on an open flame tracks with your DNA. And sometimes—specifically if you find yourself raising daughters—you might not always feel aligned with those primal roots. And that’s okay. We get it. We see how hard you’re trying. We see you forgoing your playlist to have Taylor Swift on repeat, routinely having glitter in your beards and watching Frozen so many times you’re humming “Let it Go” while you sweep out the garage. We hear you asking what finishing spray is, and why it’s suddenly so important, and then not asking why a last-minute outfit change was necessary when we’re already late.

Nine years ago, I wrote a column about the fathering of girls. (2017, March. “Real Men Wear Pink” Fernie Fix). At that time my girls were six and eight, and despite my husband’s pleas not to be mentioned in my monthly musings, I couldn’t help but throw the spotlight on him, and the other great dads I saw around me. Men who would only carry bags that said Bauer on the side, suddenly pushing strollers with dolls in them, following precise directions from boisterously adorable two-year-olds. It’s quite the identity shift, and it continues as we move into the teen years. Now I see dads navigating conversations about make-up, clothing trends, female hormones, and a plethora of ‘girl stuff’ that can leave them feeling like they might actually be from Mars after all. But they’re in there, giving it everything they’ve got. Watching gymnastics for seven hours straight cross legged on a gym floor, pulling horse trailers across Western Canada for thirty-seven seconds of actual competition, sitting on pool decks and in bleachers and courtside, cheering like the Stanley Cup is in the building. And the hardest part can be that most of the time, these strong-willed young women we’ve empowered aren’t looking for advice or opinions. And we wanted that, right? We taught them to be confident and self-assured. They listened. Some days all they want is food and a ride. 

It seems the teen years is a phase when the amount you’re needed as a parent is as variable and hard to predict as the weather. But don’t lose hope and never stop trying. Because just when it feels like you’ve been put on waivers, your kid says yes when you ask for the tenth time that weekend if they want to go fishing. And if you’re patient, and don’t ask too many questions, they just might tell you everything.