This piece originally appeared in YourTeen Magazine.
Every year on Father’s Day, dads receive gifts declaring them the “World’s Greatest Dad.”
When your kids are young, that gift is usually a shirt, hat, or mug. As they get older, the presents become activity-based — like, “Hey, let Dad use his new chef’s apron and grill tools so he can cook dinner for everyone.”
As a single dad raising a son, I usually selected and paid for my own Father’s Day gifts. When my son was a high school senior, he took control of the holiday by offering to drive us to Denny’s for breakfast. Daddy would probably end up paying, but at least someone else chose the gift.
The evening before the holiday, I couldn’t sleep. At first, I thought my insomnia was due to the anticipation of building a Grand Slam. But what woke me up was the realization that this would be the last Father’s Day before my kid left for college.
I was stunned by how quickly the fathering gig had passed. It felt like I had just taken the training wheels off my son’s bike.
I went to the kitchen to have a proper fatherly pity party. As I self-medicated by raiding my son’s Pop-Tarts collection, my refrigerator seemed to yell, “Hey, look here!”
Like any household with kids, my fridge door is the parental command center — holding academic and sports schedules, school lunch menus, and the family calendar. Also plastered across the co-parenting appliance are photos, awards, artwork, and the “good” report cards.
The refrigerator is essentially a supersized scrapbook of my son’s life. Yet I had rarely stopped to study the mementos because the schedules and calendars always demanded my attention.
The all-consuming rabbit holes of teenage life — sports, learning to drive, and preparing for college — also contributed to my unintentional parental blindness. I was so busy surviving adolescence that I rarely paused to reflect on childhood.
So I followed my refrigerator’s advice and began examining the memorabilia. I wanted to travel chronologically, which required pulling the fridge away from the wall because all the infant and toddler items were shoved to the sides.
As I examined the golden oldies, I had three quick insights. First, I clearly went overboard with the Shutterfly photo magnets. Second, the sides of a refrigerator are dust magnets. Third, soccer consumed our lives.
I never played or watched soccer, so my soccer IQ was in the single digits. Yet I coached all his teams until middle school because it seemed like the fatherly thing to do.
Soccer eventually became my son’s passion, and he played until college. I assumed it was my duty to support his activities, so I attended every scrimmage and game.
But I was wrong.
Participating in my son’s life wasn’t an obligation. It was a privilege.
That late-night time travel clarified what it means to be a dad. After years of supporting, guiding, and loving my son, I realized the father-child relationship resembles the Taoist symbol of Yin and Yang. The two — child and father — are part of a unified whole and an unbreakable bond.
That connection is called fatherhood.
The trip down memory lane also triggered a rapid stream of recollections. Even more intense than the memories was the avalanche of emotions that came with them. I was overwhelmed.
I started crying, and I’m not entirely sure why. My dominant emotion was pride, not sadness. My tears were probably the result of feeling blessed to have those fatherly memories.
And then it finally dawned on me.
You don’t just remember being a dad.
You feel fatherhood.
Forever.
Teenagers might not give tangible presents on Father’s Day. But that’s okay. They’ve already given the best possible gift:
The feeling of being a dad.
