Hi, my name is Bill, and I’m a father.

I know a little about being a dad. I’ve been one for over twenty years. So far, my wife and I have raised one kid to his pre-teen years, one into his teens, one to his high school graduation, and one into his adulthood (is college-aged considered adulthood these days? I dunno – I guess that’s a subject for another blog post entirely).

Yes, that’s right. I’m the father of four sons, ages 12 to 20. Sounds impressive, right? Makes great small talk at parties and stuff. People love to hear about what it’s like to raise four kids, to say nothing of four boys. I hear lots of “Holy cow!”, “Oh my gosh!”, “Do you ever sleep?”, etc. I imagine what they’re really thinking is, “Why would you DO such a thing, you FOOL!?” or “Gosh, your poor, poor wife – think what you’ve done to her, man!”

Inevitably someone, usually a mom, says, “I hear they’re easier than girls,” to which I reply, “I would have no idea, and thank God for that.” I’m pretty inept with just my own gender group, even though I actually know something about our kind. Daughters? Wow.

So here’s my chance to go on public record, before a huge audience (well, you’re reading it, so there must be others, too), and tell everyone what it feels like to be a dad for four boys. Mind you, I realize this exposé ruins my whole party-chat strategy for the future – now everyone will have already heard my whole routine – but I guess I feel strongly that my thoughts should be recorded in writing ASAP before I’m run over by a bus or something.

I was pretty young when we started our family. I was 23, and my wife, Lizette, was 21 when our first son was born. Becoming parents was something Lizette and I hadn’t really planned on doing until several years later, but Mother Nature apparently felt a greater sense of urgency about the launch date than we did. I’m pretty sure Lizette will never forgive my less-than-tactful display of discovery when she told me I’d be a father soon. I recall it being a front-door moment, and I think I may have closed that door between us, immediately and abruptly after receiving the news from her, without saying so much as “Oh. That’s nice.” Yeah – tact has never really been my thing. Thankfully she forgave me, and here we are today.

Now, after 20 years of raising kids, I look back at that moment in the doorway when I learned I would be a father, and realize that I had it all wrong. I was scared to death. I was insecure. I was really worried that it would be more than I could handle, that it would ruin me, and that I would lose my sense of identity in exchange for a thankless life of toil and service to the unappreciative. Well, actually, I was right about all of that. The part I got wrong was something I couldn’t possibly get my head around at such a young age.

See, I found out that while I did lose myself, and it was definitely more than I could handle, and that four small, fragile, helpless little boys can certainly ruin a 6-foot, 200 lb.-plus, full-grown man, it’s all very, very worth it. I’m a dad, and I don’t ever want to stop being one. That’s right, I am hopelessly and uncontrollably hooked on being a father.

In fairness to my naive, 20-something self, how could I have known it would be this good? There’s really no way to explain what fatherhood feels like, so there’s no way anyone could have told me, or that I could have imagined it then. Foreseeing the potential fulfillment of a life of fatherhood is impossible if you’ve never tried it.

And who could have predicted it would be such a good fit for me? Really, if you’d known me when I was in my early twenties you’d never guess that I would ever be a Ward Cleaver or a Mike Brady. Not that I’m saying I am now. Just that there’s this image people associate with being a great dad, and it seems to have something to do with our favorite childhood TV shows. In reality, from my sons’ perspectives, I’m sure I’m probably more like an Al Bundy or a Homer Simpson. But I’d say I’m a darned good Al or Homer, and it’s kind of miraculous that it went even that well for me.

There have been moments when I felt like I’d turn green and grow very, very rapidly out of my purple pants (Hulk smash!) My sons have been challenging at times, to say the least, like any kids.

We’ve had the 3 a.m. family meetings to discuss the finer points of leaving the house at that hour via ground-floor windows – not that a door would’ve been so much better. Really, the looks on their faces when we unexpectedly infiltrated their secret reentry were priceless.

We’ve had the conversations about why it’s important to do your homework, clean your room, do the dishes, feed and walk the dogs. You know, the reinforcing conversations? The ones you have twelve times, just to make sure everyone heard you the first eleven times?

We’ve also had the runs to the ER to repair nearly-disconnected body parts, at the most inconvenient times – you, know, times like when you’re already busy at the hospital giving birth to another son (yes, we really had a kid getting 23 stitches while his mother was giving birth to his brother in the same hospital at the same time).

Parent-teacher talks, summer school, embarrassing apologies to the neighbors… How did we get through all of that? No, really. I have no idea. I could go on and on.

But there have been other moments, too, that make me forget all that stuff (if only briefly). See, they do all those crazy things on purpose, so they can figure out who they are, how they fit into the world, and how far they can push the envelope before it breaks. Then they take what they’ve learned (some of it from you, if you’re lucky), and they do these amazing things. Simple things like hug you when you need to know someone loves you no matter what, and complicated things like becoming a responsible, hard-working man who can take care of himself and the people he cares about.

They play guitars and sing songs. They build machines and start campfires. They stop pucks, make baskets, and catch fish. They bandage wounds, serve stew, rake leaves, wonder at fireworks and sleep under the stars. They help each other, teach each other and love each other. One day, they may even become fathers themselves.

They make you grateful, they make you proud, they make you humble. That’s when you realize that this is the product of all your hard work. This is what the pain and agony turns into.

I imagine that my experience isn’t too different than other fathers’ stories. If you’re a dad – or a mom for that matter – you’ve undoubtedly noticed that being a parent is a relentless compromise of giving up your ideas of what should be in exchange for what you never knew could be. Yes, I have four of them, and yes they’re all boys, and yes we’re crazy. But being a parent must be pretty much the same gift to anyone who’s lucky enough to receive it, regardless of what kind of kids you have and how many you’re given. It’s simply and indisputably the best thing in the whole, wide world.

So this is what it’s like to be a father of four sons. It hooks me in, never letting me go, always reminding me that whatever else I do with my life, I made something good when we brought our boys into the world. Happy Father’s Day to me (and to my poor, poor wife).

Tags: father's day, fatherhood