Guys: It’s Time to Daddy the F*ck Up

What moment made you the dad you

are today? The answer to this question
will define a generation of men.
My bachelor pad was a penthouse at the corner of
Massachusetts and Commonwealth avenues. I had picked it
for the silence, the view, and the morning light. But every
Friday my two toddlers, Kerry and Seamus, would pile into
the tiny elevator to ride up for an overnight visit.
At first I didn’t know what to do with them. Diapers,
formula, Pack ‘n Plays were not my thing; money and
booze and women were. I had purchased bunk beds, even
though neither of the kids was old enough to sleep in the
top bunk yet, and a matching blond wooden toy chest. But
the furniture didn’t prepare me to be a dad.
After getting beaten to a pulp by the effort required to deal
with children unwilling to take their baths, eat dinner, go to
sleep, or sit still the first few times they visited, some faint
intuition finally clicked. Something no one taught me or
even mentioned as a good idea.
I got on my hands and knees and became a monster. I
chased Kerry and Seamus around and around the tiny
apartment. I counted to 10 and played hide-and-seek. I
caught them and tickled their necks. I smelled my own
children, heard their laughs, and watched joy dance across
their faces, and I felt joy in my heart for those fleeting
moments of physical connection. When we were done with
an hour of roughhousing they slept immediately and hard—
so did I.
♦◊♦
For dads there is one moment when all the things we have
been told about what it means to be a father, and all the
things we have experienced as sons, get tossed out the
window and we are confronted with the reality and
magnitude of taking responsibility for our own children.
For some, the defining event is the moment of birth; for
others, it’s a moment of loss through divorce, maturation,
or even death. But for all, a central questions is: What
moment made you the dad you are today? The answer to
this question will define this generation of men. We don’t
need to man up, we need to daddy up. Our kids are waiting.
Here is what some guys had to say.
♦◊♦
I remember a nurse demanding I “hold her leg!” Several
exhausting pushes by my beloved later and I was officially
a daddy. I felt dumbstruck but not anxious. The weight had
been lifted and replaced by awe. Shortly after a nurse had
cleaned up our son and approached me. She asked if I’d
like to hold him. I replied, almost unconsciously, “No,
that’s OK”—I had never held a newborn baby. She smiled
at me knowingly, handed me my son and I just stared for
what seemed like hours at this little life before me. My life
as a dad had begun.

—Vincent Daly, blogger, CuteMonster

♦◊♦
Most dads have to let their kids go when they leave for
college. I had to let go of my 10-year-old when I moved
away from the town where he lives with his mom. I was
terrified at leaving him, as I was used to seeing him at least
three times a week. It hadn’t been easy, but my wife and I
had dealt with six years of pick-ups and drop-offs, sudden
cancellations by my ex, and long periods when my son
barely spoke to us. Strangely enough, when I told him I
was moving, my son wasn’t upset. Now that we live in
different cities, we Skype regularly, talk on the phone, and
he seems happier and more willing to share the details of
his life. On Skype the other day I got to see the inside of his
room, and he proudly showed me all his artwork on the
walls. It almost brought me to tears—after six years, I was
actually seeing where he lived.

—Anonymous

♦◊♦
The first moment that I was able to see and hold my
firstborn. You conceptualize what that moment will be like,
but it’s not until you hold a life in your own arms and know
that you are now responsible for this little untainted soul,
that it really hits home.

—Christopher Lewis, blogger, DadofDivas

♦◊♦
My daughter was born when I was 19. I was building
transmissions in a small shop in Asbury Park during the
day and working in a restaurant at night. I got a waitress
there pregnant one night in the backseat of my ’67
Mustang. A few months after my daughter was born, I was
in the supermarket buying Pampers and formula when I ran
into my boys. They were buying beer for a night on the
town.
I was ashamed I wasn’t out chasing women and getting
drunk. I felt I’d failed a vision of manhood that I’d
inherited, both as my father’s son and simply as an
American male. I’d lost my independence to roam, seduce
women, and, most important, inflict or endure violence.

—Michael Kamber, “Shooting the Truth” in The Good

Men Project

♦◊♦
Although there had been many small moments when I
thought to myself, “Wow, I’m a dad,” it wasn’t until after
my marriage fell apart that the full significance of
fatherhood finally hit me. I was at Walmart, standing in the
checkout line with two of my three sons.
The boys and I were enjoying one of the visitation
weekends worked out by their mother and me before the
courts finalized all the details of the split. When it was our
turn to check out, the cashier looked down and smiled at
my oldest son as she rang up our items. “Hey there, cutie,”
she said. ”My parents are getting a divorce,” he replied
without any hesitation.
The tone in his voice was devoid of emotion except for that
slight hint of dread kids reserve for expressing their fear of
the unknown in anticipation of events like impending trips
to the dentist. Because my son was 7, his mother and I felt
that he was old enough to understand what was happening,
and so a few weeks earlier, we had told him about
the separation. At the time he took the news with matter-of-
fact acceptance.
Like me, my son’s brain has to stretch, dissect, and
reassemble information before he will comment on it, and
there’s no set period for how long this will take. So the
reality of his mom and dad no longer living together as a
family connected with him in same moment I was buying
frozen pizzas for dinner. There was an awkward silence at
my son’s revelation before a sympathetic expression came
over the cashier’s face. I was equally unprepared for his
response, putting into context how even more unprepared I
was as a parent in a broken home.
The only thing I could think to do was get on my knees,
hug my boys as tight as I could and tell them how much I
loved them. That’s the moment when I understood that the
title of father was an action and not just some guy with
kids. And I had a long way to go.

—Ron Mattocks, author, blogger, Clark Kent’s

Lunchbox

♦◊♦
Despite the first day of school, recitals, soccer and baseball
games, and many accidents that end in blood, my pivotal
moment was a bike ride I had with my son. For an hour we
rode through the woods and he told me about a girl he liked
in class, asked me questions about my childhood, and
laughed at stupid dude jokes. Then we stopped for a few
minutes at an overlook to watch the river flow by. We
didn’t say a single word to each other; we just sat there,
father and son, throwing stones into the water. Then he
hugged me. The warmth that pumped through my body that
day was pride, and the understanding that I wasn’t just a
diaper changer, sandwich maker, or boo-boo fixer. I am
playing a vital role in helping shape a human being’s life. I
am a father.

—Blogger, WhyIsDaddyCrying

♦◊♦
Jessica and I have been together three days in Iowa when I
realize I am inept. She is being noble to spare my feelings.
Wrapped in a green towel, her bare shoulders still shining
with bathwater, she sits with her back to me. I work the
brush along the line her part should follow, push the brush
to her scalp and tug. My kid tries not to cry out; she does
whimper.
It is not courage. Jessica did not have a good year with her
mother or her mother’s husband, and in her last hope for a
place that can be hers, she will not complain to me. Until
that moment the hairbrush tangles, I did not realize the
degree to which my kid is at some psychological risk. She
will endure any amount of pain rather than allow Daddy to
think she needs attention. What if Daddy does not want her,
either?
I’d planned hot breakfasts. I’d stocked up on oatmeal. I’d
bought a washer and dryer within days of moving into the
house so that Jessica’s clothing would be washed spotless. I
practiced ironing. Jessica’s complexion would be creamy,
she’d never, ever, catch cold, and her hair, her glorious
hair, would always be lustrous.
But my idylls of perfect parenthood are wrecked by a
hairbrush. Knotted about two inches from her scalp above
her ear, it rests five inches from the tangled ends of her hair
and a light-year from all I had imagined. I recall my mother
telling my sister it took a little pain to be beautiful, but
pulling Jessica’s hair by the roots from her scalp seems too
great a price to pay.
I give up and carefully scissor out the brush. Within days,
her head resembles a bird’s nest in molting season. She
looks like a perfectly happy child raised by wolves.

—Perry Glasser, “Iowa Black Dirt” in The Good Men

Project

♦◊♦
It was an evening when mommy was off to class and we
were settling down before bed, my son and my daughter
both lying on my chest. Our arms were wrapped around
one another and I swear our hearts all beat in time. On the
couch, just the three of us, it just hit me: This is what it is
all about. This is what being a dad is. Any man can be a
father; I knew this. But this moment, this one tiny moment,
summed it all up for me. I was more than a father. I am
“Daddy.”

—John Taylor, blogger, TheDaddyYoBlog

♦◊♦
Becoming a stay-at-home dad seemed noble from the
romantic distance of a boy with two stepfathers. Stay-at-
home dad—why not? We are an older couple who’d been
waiting a long time for a baby to come, and now that she
had, what were we to do? Fob her off on a stranger before
she had taken her first step?
As a reporter, your job is to write about history as it is
happening, so our grandchildren know how we lived. The
reporter holds up a mirror to society, going where few
would, asking questions few dare. He is the arbiter of what
is interesting. That is what this stay-at-home dad would tell
his old self.
I also would tell him that once he stops being a reporter, the
governor won’t call anymore. Neither will the old
colleagues. There will be no more Hollywood parties. No
expense account. No action.
It will be just you and the kid. And the kid will have no
idea how good you were. And at that old deadline time, you
will find yourself staring into a dirty diaper as though it
were tea leaves, trying to augur some story.

—Charlie LeDuff, “Stay at Home, Dad” in The Good

Men Project

♦◊♦
When she just born she would curl up on my shoulder and I
would kiss the top of her head and had no doubt that these
would be some of the sweetest moments in my life. No man
can possibly know what life means, what the world means,
what anything means, until he has children and loves them.
And then the whole universe changes and nothing will ever
again seem exactly as it seemed before. That goes double
for having a daughter.

—Ted Rubin

♦◊♦
“You love this girl, right?” It was an unvarnished
challenge, a test of no small order, and his eyes never left
mine.
“I do,” I said quickly. And I wasn’t lying. Never mind that
I was 24 at the time and a U.S. Army veteran with an
overseas tour of duty under my belt. There was still a
tremor in my voice, because the man staring at me was—
and always will be—my father.
My mother died when I was young, and Dad raised my
sister and me on his own. He was not to be trifled with.
Admiration, respect, and a healthy dose of fear were my
watchdogs throughout adolescence.
So it was that I went to see my father, with his larger-than-
life presence hovering over me still, to tell him I had met a
girl, that I loved her, and that she was going to have my
baby. My stomach was in knots, and I was sweating despite
the cold, gray day.

—Ricardo Federico, “Whatever It Takes” in The Good

Men Project

♦◊♦
That moment when the world is collapsing around your
child—bully at school, bad grade, not being liked—and a
level head and some good old-fashioned love and hugs
make them forget the problem and you realize how
important being a dad is.

—C.C. Chapman, blogger, DigitalDads

♦◊♦
I’ve been on the lookout for 10 years between two children,
but I don’t think I’ve had my defining father moment yet.
Maybe when they’re about to leave me? I don’t know.
There was once when our first daughter was maybe three
months old when I looked into her eyes, and saw myself. It
was absolutely moving. Chilling, even.

—Jim Mitchem, writer, communications tactician,

blogger

♦◊♦
My son, for some reason naked, was hiding behind the
door, and it hit him when I opened it.
“I love you, Daddy.”
“You called me down here for that?” I said, mocking,
bitter.
Manhood is determined not by organs or genetics, but by
actions, and in that moment, when all my son wanted was a
little bit of me, I proved that as a man I had failed, and I
knew it. I went to my bathroom and fell to the floor,
wishing I could die, wishing I were already dead.
But there was so much else to deal with. My son had been
acting like a beast. Daily talks with daycare providers and
endless domestic disciplinary issues had ground me down.
Then I asked myself, Who’s the man? The answer was
humbling. I was, in theory, and I needed to act like it. I
knew that some of his behavior was of my authorship. He
was 5, not yet old enough to have developed truly bad
habits, not yet capable of the self-analysis needed to
understand what he must have felt. Reacting and acting out
were the only means of expression he had. I was his father,
and the man, and it was time to be both. I no longer had the
luxury of being melancholy.
I’ve always been a fan of the fake-it-till-you-make-it
school, so I applied its principles to parenthood. I forced
myself to be glad, even thrilled, whenever I was around my
son. Every time I saw him, I hugged him. The kid showed
his face, and there I was, trying to squeeze the stuffing out
of him.
Then a funny thing happened. Faking it turned into the real
deal. I’m still not sure when it happened, but I became glad
to see him—genuinely glad. At the end of the day, I’m still
tired, and he still talks too much. I’m still frustrated by the
kindergarten dawdling, but it’s not the martyring
experience it was even a few months ago. Thus freed, I
now participate more in my son’s life. It’s easier to give of
myself, to read to him, to play with him, to listen, which is
what he wants most of all.
That moment of fatherhood failure made me realize that I
had to live even as I longed to die. It made me begin to
heal, and in healing, to be there for my son as the father he
deserves. Or at least to try.

—Christopher Koehler, “Being There” in The Good

Men Project

♦◊♦
I’m a career-driven man, which is another way to say a
selfish one. I was about to begin writing a piece about street
gangs when I clicked over from another call with my
editor. It was my wife. “My water just broke,” she said. She
wasn’t due for another two weeks. The plan had been to
finish the story with about a week to spare before the due
date. In other words, the plan had been for my baby’s birth
to not interfere with my life as I knew it.
Harper was born the next afternoon. I didn’t work on the
piece until the following week, and, frankly, I didn’t want
to. I was no longer the center of my life.

—Paul Kix, senior editor, Boston magazine;

contributing writer, ESPN the Magazine

About Tom Matlack

Tom Matlack is just foolish enough to believe he is a decent man. He has a 16-year-old daughter and 14-
and 5-year-old sons. His wife, Elena, is the love of his life.

Comments

1. Dad of Divas says:

January 24, 2011 at 6:54 am

Thanks for sharing all of these and letting me be a part of it… there are so many moments, it was
difficult to take just one!

Reply

2. Bob Stains says:

January 24, 2011 at 7:17 am

I appreciate the sharing of all these moments, and want to add one, though, as Dad of Divas notes,
there have been and continue to be many, many decisive scenes. My kids are all in college now.
When they were younger I used to travel for business. Not too bad: a couple of days every few
weeks. Even so, I missed them terribly and they missed me as well. One time when I came
through the front door after a trip, my two-year-old daughter ran across the house, leaped into my
arms, hugged me and wouldn’t let me go. I carried her around the house with her head buried in
my shoulder for what felt like hours. Every few minutes she’d raise her head up, look in my eyes,
say’ “Dad-EEEEEEE”, scrunch her head back into my shoulder and hug my neck tightly. Those
moments remind me of what’s really important from my kids’ perspective, and of what I have to
give as a Dad.
 Reply

3. Denis says:

January 24, 2011 at 8:27 am

“What moment made you the dad you are today? The answer to this question will define a
generation of men.”

Many men can’t “daddy the f*ck up” because of maternal gatekeeping! It’s pervasive at home
where she makes the rules and in family law where she makes the rules.

Tell your lawyer wife, it’s time to “daddy the f*ck up” and start speaking out for truth, justice and
the best interests of children.

You can’t blame men for the discrimination that they face.

Reply

4. Homemaker Man says:

January 24, 2011 at 9:52 am

These were great. I feel like I have a mini version of one of these moments everyday. There’s
always a moment where I have to stop and think about my role, or where I just get caught up in
how beautiful my kids are.

Reply

5. Perry Glasser says:

January 24, 2011 at 11:20 am

Proud to be among the writers above, I’ll note that the moment I became a Grand-Dad happened 8
days ago when Jessica—the little girl in Iowa Black Dirt—delivered Maya, 7 lbs. 13 oz., full head
of black hair and 19.75 perfect inches tall.
I drove 9 hours from Boston to DC as soon as I heard Jessica had gone into labor and arrived just
as Jessica went in for a C-section. Drove back 3 days later.
Dads do stuff like that.
Mother and daughter are doing well and both are now home.
w00t-w00t!
 Reply

6. CreativePlayPlus.com says:

January 24, 2011 at 4:52 pm

Dads are awesome! We’re sure there will be many, many, many more decisive moments in the
future and we can’t wait to hear about them. Looking forward to reading more posts.

Thank you

Reply

7. Chris Buckley says:

January 24, 2011 at 5:20 pm

A lifetime ago and long before I was ever a father, I was exploring a calling to ordained ministry,
specifically in a career as a hospital chaplain. I opted to serve my pastoral residency in the
neonatal intensive care unit of a major research hospital, visiting the families of critically ill or
very low birthweight newborns. While very many of these children did get to go home to live with
their families, all too many only knew their parents through the glass of their medical isolettes or
as a pair of fingers gingerly stroking them through latex gloves.

This experience helped shape the father I later became, by ingraining at an early age just how
ephemeral newborn lives could be, and how deep their parents’ connection to them was. As I sat
with grieving parents whose options had run out, I had the privilege to help them BE parents even
if only for a matter of hours. All the children who died, and the families who went home without
them of my watch, live in my heart twenty years later and often spring to mind in quiet moments
when I’m holding my own sons today.

Our entire culture is raised around sitcom notions of cookie cutter family life and fatherhood in
particular. What I learned was that the opposite is true: normal can vanish in an instant, and every
hug, every chance to hold should be cherished as if it were the last.