A Different Kind of Father’s Day

If only if it were as simple as a a card and some novelty socks for everyone…

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When I started writing Some Other Dad, I knew I’d have to write a post about Father’s Day eventually. But I had no idea what the hell I’d say.

I probably thought I’d just give it a cursory nod at the end of a post about something else, and avoid any actual nuanced discussion over the subject.

However, I was struck by some of the writers here on Substack who put such great effort and thought into posts about Mother’s Day when it rolled around in the USA. So I made a note to myself that I’d try to convey my feelings about the day past just the expected platitudes (more on those later).

My feelings about the day are, for a lack of a better word, tricky.

“But what’s tricky about Father’s Day?”, I hear you cry. “It’s a day where you get a free pint with your Sunday roast down the pub, discounts on steaks in the supermarket, and your kids buy you your alcohol or choice—maybe even some more novelty socks that disintegrate at the first sign of bipedal movement. That’s all good, isn’t it?”

Well, sure. If you’re a proud subscriber to those cliches of fatherhood, then you’ve got the perfect day awaiting you on Sunday.

The trouble is that until I became a father, that’s all I really associated the day with either. I held the same cynical, commercialised view of the whole thing.

*wipes tear away* so beautiful

I would typically have to be reminded that it was Father’s Day at all. Then whenever I next found myself in a supermarket or a petrol station, I’d buy the same thing—a card with the most non-committal message I could find (less “you’re the most amazing father I could have ever wished for” and more “I hope you have a lovely day”), a medium-sized pack of his favourite biscuits, and the cheapest bottle of single malt whiskey available. Then I’d hand them over on the day (or the day after, if he’s busy playing golf), share a stilted hug and then resume normal activity, as if that terribly awkward exchange hadn’t occurred.

But three years or so ago, I moved on to the other side of the transaction. I became a dad.

I still downplayed the whole thing in my own head. Just a day where I get a card and some chocolate—lovely, but I don’t want a fuss. Let’s just tick it off and move on, shall we?

But now my second daughter is here. My family is complete. That finality for some reason has made me really think a lot about my role as a dad, and in the past few days that culminated in a lot of thinking about what Father’s Day means to me, and what it’ll mean to my daughters.

I still don’t want any pomp. I know the day still only hangs around as another one of Clintons’ revenue streams. But there’s something else that punctuates the disinterest my childhood family showed the occasion. It was a symptom of something bigger: an admission that the role of father didn’t hold much importance in our household.

I guess Father’s Day right now is reminding me of the different type of family I want to nurture and be a part of this time around—of the kind of dad that I want to be. A dad that’s present and available, both physically and emotionally. A parent who plays an equal part, instead of one who’s just feels like the spare.

I feel the pressure to be that dad every day. Every time I do something that’s not aligned with that vision of fatherhood or how I want to parent—whether it’s losing my cool, raising my voice or whatever—I worry that I’ve struck a black mark on my record with my eldest daughter. I’m worried that the same will be true for my youngest as well.

Rationally, I know that’s not how it really works. When I was writing a previous post about gentle parenting, it was comforting to read Sarah Ockwell-Smith’s take on not getting it right every time. But what my inner child finds lacking creates pressure on me to rectify that for my kids.

Yes, I don’t want extravagant presents and breakfast in bed¹, but I don’t want them to feel like they have to stop at the nearest petrol station to grab something for me because society is telling them they have to. I want to have fostered a greater emotional bond with them than I have with my dad, so that they actually feel some kind of connection with what the day is meant to be about, instead of the indifference I feel.

Aside from attempting to explain my own emotions towards Father’s Day, there’s another reasons I actually decided to write about Sunday.

Ryan Rose Weaver, M.Ed.

asked me via this Note the other day about my feelings on Father’s Day (my response to that also partly inspired this post), with reference to this post about Mother’s Day, and how it’s far more complicated for some people than others.

Reading that gave me pause for thought about all the women in my life who might find Mother’s Day a bit more complicated than the commercialised ideal, but it also made me realise that it’s the same for Father’s Day as well. The difference is that, generally speaking, women have the stronger social networks and emotional connections with each other to talk through their heavy feelings. On the other hand, far fewer men and sons would admit to their complicated feelings on Father’s Day—in fact, like my younger self, most would probably not realise there had any complicated emotions at all.

I’ve been reflecting on the fact that two of my friends will be spending Sunday thinking about their fathers who passed away whilst they were in their teens. Another came out as gay last year, and has had a strained relationship with his dad ever since.

My issues with the day are trifling compared to theirs; they can’t just pop down the off-license, grab a six pack of beer for their dad and send the occasion packing for another year; the occasion sits heavily on people in these scenarios. The incessant commercialisation of days like this doesn’t help either.

So this Father’s Day, if you can spare a moment however, give a thought to the other people in your lives who might be finding the day more difficult than most.

But do take a moment for yourself to recognise what you’ve achieved as a dad. Chances are, if you’re reading parenting-related content on sites like Substack, then you’re a pretty engaged parent to begin with, so giving yourself some props once in a while is not only deserved, but vital.

In my experience, being so engaged in this kind of parenting content can sometimes actually make us feel worse about our parenting than those who aren’t. Ignorance is bliss, as they say, and shitty fathers don’t know—or likely care— that they’re shitty fathers. But you do care—and you deserve to know that you’re a fucking great dad.

So happy Father’s Day for Sunday. Whether the day is as simple as a free pint with your Sunday roast, or if it’s a bit more complicated than that, I hope you have a peaceful, relaxing day.

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What is Father’s Day to you?

I realise that for those who find this day tricky, it might be a subject they’re not that comfortable talking about. However, I'm interested though in finding out more about how you all view these types of occasions. Do you go all out or is it just a case of a card and a bottle of wine?

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Previously on Some Other Dad

Recent previous issues

Absent Without Leave

We’re Just Normal Dads

Surviving the Newborn Night Shift

Climbing the Life Admin Mountain

1. Who knows what mad bastard came up with that idea. The weeks of picking crumbs out of your bedding isn’t worth a couple of pieces of lukewarm toast eaten whilst half-lying down.