Reports From the Nursery (Part Thirty)

By Alexis, In Her Own Words

I’ve had quite a week. I mean, I’m usually having quite the week; as a three-year-old, I’m still a new human and while I’ve graduated from finding my bare toes a source of giggling fascination, I’m always discovering new adventures and experiences.

            Admittedly, some are more enjoyable than others. My most recent experience was of the “don’t need to do that again” -variety.

            It involved a Close Encounter between my forehead and a fireplace mantle. And not a gentle kiss from the stonework, either.

            My reaction was interesting. After the initial white flash, I felt… pain. So much pain that rather than my usual immediate wailing and tears, at first there was absolute wide-eyed silence.

            And then —after the deepest, sharpest inhalation I’ve ever taken— I screamed. The kind of scream that makes windows rattle and birds fly from nearby trees. The kind of scream that makes people in nearby states ask each other, “Did you hear that?”

            And I was inconsolable. At least, until my mom —summoned from work by the babysitter— arrived to scoop me up in a much-needed embrace. At times like these, you always want your mom first.

            Five stitches later, I still was not settled; I needed more…

            …and found out what that “more” was when Daddy rushed in and held me close.

            The bond between a father and daughter occupies a peculiar and uniquely beautiful corner of human experience. Back in heaven, before I was parachuted into the human world, I knew a lot of daughters who had their time on earth and returned Home.

            Some had, to be sure, a poor relationship with their fathers; heck, some never met their fathers.  It happens.

            But for most of them, it is like being enveloped in a warm blanket of living love. (That’s a verbatim quote from one of them.)

            Moreover, it is a relationship built on contradictions. Fathers and sons are often close— but a father knows what it is like to be a boy; he was one himself, once. There are few mysteries between a dad and his son.

            Not so for a father and his daughter. Truth be told, all females are a mystery for all males. Tiny little females, who somehow popped out of yet another unknowable female, multiply the enormity of this enigma. As a result, most girl-dads are in a constant state of terror, though they try not to show it.

            Both father and daughter know Daddy would die to shield you from harm. But even more, both feel a deeply emotional bond— this, even though many fathers spend years pretending not to be emotional at all.

            Father's Day invites us to celebrate this relationship, though fathers themselves often seem uncertain about how such celebrations should proceed. Mothers tend to accept heartfelt tributes with grace. Fathers, when confronted with expressions of gratitude, frequently respond as though they have been unexpectedly called to testify before Congress.

            "What is all this for?" they may ask. (Often, they really don’t know. See my earlier comment about dads, daughters and mysteries.)

            For many daughters, however, the answer is obvious.

            It is for the rides to school. The advice solicited and unsolicited. The unwavering confidence offered during moments of self-doubt. The sacrifices that often went unnoticed until adulthood. Most of all, it is for a particular kind of love that is not always eloquently expressed but is nevertheless unmistakable. It’s the kind of love that makes a Daddy embrace so profound for an injured daughter.

            The relationship always begins with a mystery.

            A father looks at his newborn daughter and immediately understands two things.

• First, he loves her completely.
• Second, he has absolutely no idea what he is doing.

            The second realization tends to persist for several decades.

            Popular culture has often portrayed fathers of daughters as either heroic guardians or lovable incompetents. The truth is considerably more complex. Most fathers exist somewhere between Thor and Gomer Pyle. They are thoughtful men attempting to guide someone through experiences they themselves have never had.

            He learns new vocabulary. He studies unfamiliar customs. He discovers that a direct question such as "Why are you upset?" can sometimes produce less information than a corporate press release.

            And yet he persists, bumbling through the bewildering dark.

            A father can perhaps explain compound interest, maybe rebuild a transmission, negotiate a mortgage, and discuss geopolitical events with remarkable (if occasionally unwarranted) confidence and competence. Then his twelve-year-old daughter asks whether two text messages ending with periods signify emotional hostility, and suddenly he is operating far outside his area of expertise.

            Many fathers worry privately about whether they are adequately preparing their daughters for the future. The concern is rarely articulated. Fathers tend not to gather in support groups and openly discuss their fears over herbal tea.

            Instead, anxiety appears indirectly. It surfaces in questions:

            Have I taught her resilience? Will she recognize her own worth? Will she know how to make difficult decisions? Will she recover from disappointment? Will she be able to distinguish between people who value her and people who merely want something from her?

            These concerns often occupy a father's mind far more than his daughter realizes. Like, his every waking hour.

            Of course, not all fathers communicate affection easily. Some are naturally expressive. Others belong to generations that viewed emotional disclosure with suspicion, as though discussing feelings might somehow void the warranty on their masculinity.

            Willy-nilly, their love emerges through different channels. It appears in reliability, in presence, in the sheer act of being there. In quiet acts of service.

            A father may never say, "You mean everything to me.” Instead, he arrives at six o'clock in the morning to help move furniture. He waits through medical appointments. He answers the phone on the first ring. He checks whether the tires are safe before a long drive.

            The language differs, but the message remains remarkably clear.

            I am here. And I always will be.

            For many daughters, these simple words become the defining feature of the relationship.

            This is what Father's Day ultimately symbolizes. Not perfection, or paternal authority honored. Not even on the day when you gift him a tie he won’t wear but secretly will love for the rest of his life— because it came from his girl.

            And despite occasional confusion, questionable advice about fashion, and a lifelong inability to understand why anyone needs seventeen nearly identical throw pillows, they helped shape the women their daughters would become.

            That is no small accomplishment.

            Indeed, it may be one of the most important accomplishments of all.

            Happy Father's Day, everybody!

- end -

            (EDITOR’S NOTE: Alexis will return soon— but right now, she’s studying the stitched-up “ouchie” on her forehead. We can’t be sure, but from her expression we’re guessing she thinks it makes her look like a real… well, a real badass. And she’s right.)