They say no man is a hero to his own valet.
But your children see more of you than any valet. At first you’re this mightly giant, a good, long while passes, then you become this semi-inscrutable monument to your past life, likely still at some young man’s game when you’re past your physical prime. It’s not fun to have your son find out you’re just a human man, after all. Every man wants his son to be a better man than himself, but how are you going to produce that which you can’t manage for yourself?
You would never treat a stranger as badly as you treat your own son when he works with you. I’m crabby and direct with mine. I’m impatient. I’d be polite if it was the neighbor’s kid, and not expect nearly as much out of ’em.
My older son has fallen asleep in his supper after a day with me. A badge of honor, surely. Coming and going, I hope.
(Thanks to Delaware Dave for sending that one along)
7 Responses
And the best way to treat em too, where work is concerned. No son of mine will go out there, expecting hot chocolate breaks and consideration when he is "tired". I would rather be the one to confer the heartbreaking lessons of life, so I can be certain the lessons are learned. "Gee, thanks, Dad".
The child is father to the man.
My father was an ogre and I feared him more than anything in the world, real or imagined. He would start whipping me and go into a rage and wouldnt stop. The entire time he kept hollering, "Look me in the eye, Look me in the eye"
To this day I associate looking into someones eyes with punishment. He complained about everything, all the time.
It wasnt until a counseling session when I was 37 that the fear relaxed. The counselors told us to put our hands on each others shoulders and look at each other and for me to tell him how I felt about him.
I did it and experienced tunnel vision for the only time in my 63 years
I was going to write something fun and snappy but the above comment took the stuffing right outta me.
I'm sorry for you mister that you had a bad one. A good dad is truly worth more than gold. Try and be the man yours wasn't and go with God.
My son is my architect. He really is an architect, by the way. I work with him. He paints, I stir the paint and pour it into the pan. He textures the ceiling and I pour the texture into the roller pan. He lifts the carpet and I drag it out. He lifts and fastens the drywall ceiling and I carry drywall screws around in my pockets. My house will never be the same. My wife says thank the Lord for that!
Very moving.
If I were eating a slice of that bread, I would not be able to stop thinking about the lad and his dad. I would be eating it with gratitude.