Within my boomer generation, parenting roles appeared immutable.
Mothers did the nurturing, fathers the scolding; mothers were of the hearth and breast, fathers of the word and fist; mothers taught us stylish dress and how to garnish a plate while fathers schooled us on investing in futures and how to make an open-field tackle.
One in a while, though, the traits of the opposite parent shined through. My mother once roared at one of my grade school classmates for razzing me about my skinny arms. When I was four, my father guided my tiny hand into a meandering river. When my wrist parted the flow, I knew the power of both the water’s gentle persuasion and how my presence could affect its course.
Did this mean that mom was showing fatherly traits and dad motherly ones? Nurturers often leap to a child’s defense while scolders steer our fledgling selves clear of danger.
The generations have come a long way — though not nearly far enough — in recognizing a mother’s strengths. But many fathers still wind a tricky path toward reconciling strength and tenderness.
This week, I celebrate the fathers I’ve known and those I’ll never meet; fathers who’ve shattered old-guard boundaries and revel in their trespass — and their love of pets that helped pave their way.
Many fathers are an apparent study in contrasts. Hauling payloads over hill and dale in his big rig, Rick (not his real name) never rides without his sidekick and shotgunner, Chico the chihuahua. Barrel-chested and arms thick as pythons, Rick looks like he could rip your heart out should you rile him. But petting the soft short hairs on Chico’s head keeps him unruffled. Whatever epithets angry roadsters hurl his way, Rick’s middle finger hangs in neutral. Being a father to Chico has taught him that shared nurture wins the day.
My biological father who grilled me mercilessly over the proper tools to use for a bicycle repair was also the man who read to me from Robinson Crusoe and tickled me awake to watch the sunrise. This sniper, who zapped nazis at the Battle of the Bulge in WWII, rescued and raised more than a dozen dogs and cats in his almost 96 years. The last surviving of these, Sam the rag doll cat, lay curled at dad’s side as he took his last breath.
My “step-up” dad, who once criticized my counter-culture values and withheld allowances on condition that I worked, was the same man who subsidized a reunion with my then-estranged father and encouraged a healed connection between us. This pioneer of industry, who brought frozen foods to the airlines, tended to our family’s demented toy poodle in her twilight years and shared his elderly bed with an overgrown Dalmatian.
In my youth, I thought my two dads duplicitous — and I was quick to judge other fathers by their covers. I earnestly mistook gruffness for cruelty when it was often a call to steel myself for a most nurturing cause: becoming a pet parent.
Perhaps the mutable roles of parenting haven’t changed nearly as much as my perception of them. I’ve learned that the strongest walls are often porous ones — and that many tough dads sleep beside furry underbellies.