On Halloween, fatherhood and empathy
I don’t remember what I said, and happily, neither does my wife. But the gist of my comment was that our daughter’s Halloween costume could have been better, even though I had done literally nothing to make it so.
This was four years ago. We’re not big Halloween people, and we generally take a DIY approach, in large part to avoid wasting money and resources on something that will only be worn once. My wife designed and crafted our daughter’s bunny rabbit costume, and then I said something stupid that undermined her effort. In that moment, or shortly thereafter, I realized my deficits as a partner and father, specifically in the realm of emotional labor.
The upside is that this moment spurred me toward being more active in the kids’ costumes, which is why, last night, as I watched the World Series, I was also turning an ordinary orange t-shirt into a pumpkin costume with the help of some scissors, some black felt, and a roll of two-sided tape.
The project took maybe 15 minutes, tops, but I executed it with care because I wanted it to be just right for my son, who has been saying he wants to be a pumpkin for a month and counting. More than anything, I wanted him to be happy with it. And he is! (Though this morning, he also announced a heretofore unknown desire to be a doggie. So it goes.)
As I worked on the costume, my mind wandered. I thought about fatherhood. I think a lot of guys worry that fatherhood will be an energy suck, an obstacle to achieving their career goals and dreams. (I certainly worried about that.) They think, perhaps, that certain parental responsibilities are unmanly, whether it’s changing a diaper or doing arts and crafts for Halloween. You often hear men say things like “I would do anything for my family,” and what they often mean is that they own a firearm, or have some sort of martial arts training. But the reality is, most families need a grownup to fold the laundry more than they’ll ever need someone to ward off a home invasion.
I also thought about how being a dad means learning that love is a verb. It’s your actions that show that you care. It might mean turning off the big game so you can focus on a board game, or pausing an important work project so you can take your kid to the park before dark. It means putting someone else at the center of your life, in the hopes that you can provide them with the love and the resources and the memories that will help them achieve their goals and dreams.
This love is as energizing as anything you will ever know. It will shake you out of bed when you’re feeling hungover. It will give you extra focus at your job because you have to finish something in time for that 3pm pickup. It will inspire you to take better care of yourself — not to live longer, though there’s that, too. But to live better, to be able to keep up with your kids as they run around and beg to be carried and laugh and generally exhaust you with their limitless love and energy.
Fatherhood is a blessing, and as I sat on the couch affixing a crooked black smile to that orange long-sleeved shirt, I felt incredibly fortunate. Fortunate that, this year especially, my family remains safe and healthy. Fortunate that my wife and I remain gainfully employed. Fortunate that we have so much to be thankful for.
And as my mind wandered, I thought of another pair of fathers. One hasn’t been so fortunate. After landing his first big job, his wife and baby daughter died in a car accident, and he raised his two surviving young sons as a single dad. He worked out of town, and rode the train home every night to be with his kids. Last night, I wondered if he ever stayed up late, DIY-ing a Halloween costume for them.
And then there’s another dad. He’s fortunate, but doesn’t seem grateful. He hasn’t experienced a tragedy like the other father has — indeed, his biggest misfortunes were brought upon himself. It’s impossible to imagine him sitting alone, carefully cutting black triangles out of felt, affixing them to a blank cotton shirt with the utmost precision, trying to get it right for the sake of his child. It’s an act of love that would be wholly out of character for him.
In fact, at that exact moment, that second father was in my hometown, holding a crowded and unmasked rally in the middle of a pandemic, then abandoning that crowd with no way to get home in sub-freezing temperatures. It’s that lack of care — that inability to think of others first, that radical misunderstanding of how love works — that would seem disqualifying for a position of leadership. It’s hard to imagine this person successfully running a business. Or a school. Or a country. Or even a family Halloween. And it isn’t just a character flaw. His indifference is a primary reason why we’ve lost 227,000 people and counting — mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters—to a global pandemic.
As for the first father — the widowed dad who, later in life, lost one of those surviving sons to cancer, then watched his other surviving son struggle with addiction and more — well, I don’t know if he ever crafted a costume for his kids. But from what I can tell, he’s a man of decency. Of empathy. Of caring and consideration for others. So I’d like to think that he would’ve.
He’s a man who has experienced the unimaginable, and emerged the better for it. Here’s hoping he gets the opportunity to lead the rest of us in doing the same.
