Sort of father

A few months ago I set out to write a cycle of poems for my daughters. Here, at least, was something I should be able to give them: beautiful, meaningful, created for them. Shouldn't I?

Immediately, even as the goal insisted itself, I felt lost. I had no idea about content. What could I say? At first, I could think of nothing.

So I made dates with the laptop, forcing myself to consign words to the screen. Let fingers fly and see what stories they tell. Quickly it became evident there was plenty to say, but some of it grossly uncomfortable. Admitting my shortcomings. I couldn't write about parenthood without addressing that sense of inadequacy.

Gradually a body of poems began to take shape. I plan to weave it into a new chapbook. The hope of completing it by December is growing dim, but at least I am working toward something. Some date in the not-too-distant future. We'll just keep saying December and see where that gets us, if not frustrated.

Toronto father Edward Keenan writes a blog for The Walrus entitled Act Like a Man. This week in reviewing an article in The Atlantic about a "theory of mind" that explores the multiplicity of selfhood, Keenan digresses into a perspective on parenthood that is seldom expressed, widely relevant.

There exists a vast gulf between the ideal of family life—that selfless, fulfilling enterprise toward which every responsible adult is pressed—and the reality. In fact bliss and simplicity are more readily attainable in childless relationships. But here we must dissect definitions of happiness.

Being a father to a kid...is probably, day to day, the most tiring, aggravating and stressful thing I’ve ever done. It’s dirty, sometimes it’s painful and it is completely relentless. It has its transcendent moments, but they are few and far between the frenzied, spit-up stained, burdened state that comes to be considered normal. But still. Still. Most parents share the sense that whatever other kind of screw-up or genius they may be, their children represent their greatest achievement, their reason for being.

Keenan's son isn't even a teenager yet. But his words brought me close to tears. Whenever I see starry-eyed young (or not so young) couples eager to explore this great adventure, I want to caution them—scratch that—I want to tell them they're crazy. Did they not learn from their own parents' mistakes how helpless most people are to facilitate the family dream they have in their heads? From the outset, every parent is doomed to fail a child's expectations, whether for trying too hard or not enough.

I count myself lucky my teenage daughters seem to enjoy my company most of the time. But our visits are so rare, it's hard for them not to.

Okay, that sounds cynical. Actually I've been privileged to observe the development of two beautiful, remarkable people who bear some magical resemblances to me. But except for the first few, dirty years I didn't have to run the painful course of raising children day in, day out: the discipline, quarrels and groundings. Or not doing those things, being permissive, whatever. I did not choose to abdicate that responsibility, but in hindsight I think it might have turned me into a monster. I have little enough patience for looking after myself. Usually I have been in no position to do more than offer an ear, and from time to time share with the girls my peculiar life and friends.

But they are alive, finding their footing. In their lives I see shreds of hope waving like war banners. I swear there is no stronger bond than between parent and child. Friends and lovers will be the people I spend most time with in the years to come. But wherever my daughters go, however long we spend apart, there will never be anything that makes me so happy as to see them enjoying a moment.