The following entry was written for Mommybloggers.com by our friend Pete of Chocolate Makes It Better and Dadcentric.

Jenny, Meghan and Jenn have been nice enough to ask me to contribute to their ever growing list of daddy bloggers giving their persectives on fatherhood for fathers day.

Fathers day in Australia isn't until September so I thought, instead of talking about my dad, I might write about what being a dad means to me.

For me, being a dad is about a lot of different things. It's about being scared but confident, authoritative but relaxed and happy and sad all at the same time.

It's a cavalcade of emotions and feelings that starts at one spectrum and can turn 180 degrees in an instant. It's about keeping your wits about you and the negatives aspects of life away from you. All in all it's a bloody hard job!

I get the most out of being a dad when I get to 'just spend time with my kids'. No rollercoaster's or cricket games, just sitting in our lounge room playing with a cardboard box, pretending it's a car or train. That's when I really see my children prosper and develop and this is when I get the most enjoyment.

I sometimes love to just sit and wonder about all the things my kids will do and think. Will they grow up happy and life a long healthy life?

Will they get taken away from me by a horrible accident?
Will they get along, or will they fight?
Will they be like me?

It's at the point of the last questions that I start to think"Oh my fucking god I hope not!"

To me, being a dad is about enjoying your children, getting pleasure from a backwards glance or a tiny foot. It's about watching your children grow and being amazed at the fact that for a short period of their life, all they know is you.

That's what being a dad is all about to me.

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The following Entry was written by Jason from Pet Cobra. Jason's work can also be read at Dadcentric:

A bonus: when you have a kid that is, in many ways, your clone. Mini Me! There’s no denying that Lucas is my son; we look alike (yeah, he’s blond, but so was I until age four), and he bears no resemblance whatsoever to the mailman (who, actually, is the mailwoman, not that Beth would go the postal carrier route if she were ever to cheat on me – her tastes are more discerning. Calf-length socks and pith helmets? Please.)

Deep-seeded narcissism aside, there’s something profound about having a child whose interests, even at two years of age, run parallel to your own. In a sense, it’s like watching yourself grow up – a living, breathing, laughing reminder of the small things that once fueled your days and becalmed your nights. A bird soaring overhead. A train rumbling by. Balloons. Apple juice. The sand between your toes and the perfectly formed seashell found at low tide. Watching him revel in these things is healing, providing a healthy dose of perspective, and an antidote to the cynicism and moroseness that these days seems to permeate everything.

Plus, as a dad, it’s pretty cool to know that your kid likes the same goofy shit you do. It’s validation on a genetic level.

Continue reading "Thicker than Water" »

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The following entry was written by Eric Sagalyn from More Diapers.
Eric also writes for The blogfathers:

I love cars. I've posted at length about my love of cars and my fear that my son wouldn't share that love. As he learns to talk, it's quickly become obvious that I have no need to fear -- he loves cars.

He talks about them day and night. "Car" is usually the first word he says when he wakes up in the morning and one of the last things he says when he goes to bed. He wants everything to be a car. I can relate.

I know, I know, it's stupid to like something so material and expensive and... well... silly. It's not like a spend my day watching NASCAR (which, incidentally, I bores me), though. No, I just have dreams about cool sports cars, trucks and one day owning a Lotus.

Yah, like I said, stupid. Maybe even shallow. But, that's me. Me and my son.

Continue reading "Cars Dads Boys" »

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The Following entry was written by Laid off dad. Laid off dad also writes for The Blogfathers:

June 18 will be my fifth Father’s Day, which means my older son will soon be old enough to attend kindergarten. It’ll be tough sending him off to school full time, because his first day will officially start the inexorable erosion of my influence in his life. The effect will be subtle at first. Refusals will morph into backtalk, then sass, then stinging rebuke, then vitriolic door-slamming, and in 10 years my transformation from primary playmate to the World’s Lamest Dorkweed will be complete.

If history is any guide, it will be another 10 years before he comes around again and decides that maybe I’m not a blithering idiot after all. When that happens, what sort of adult will he be? Will he be a man, or a guy? Will he be principled? Will he be self-assured? Or will he be suckered into buying a razor with 18 blades in it?

I have no idea, and worse still I have to admit that, when it comes to raising kids, I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. As far as I know, something I’ve already done has condemned my boy to life as an obnoxious prick. Or maybe I’m the obnoxious prick, and he’s spent his formative years learning from the master.

Whenever I get caught in an eddy of angst like this, I feel better when I consider my dad’s example, and how he managed to raise his boys against some long odds. Not that I’m ragging on my dad’s dad. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Grandpa was my first best friend, and for 10 years he and Grandma lived across the street from us. He and I spent hours together, putting golf balls and stuffing our faces with breadsticks and ginger ale right before dinner. (Mom loved that.) When I think back on it, his attentiveness was probably an attempt to atone for the time he spent away from his family, when his sons were young. Grandpa was the president of a small family business that kept him at work around 15 hours a day. He was usually up and out before Dad awoke and didn’t return until long after Dad was asleep. Even though Grandpa was technically around, there wasn’t a lot of time for all that wonderfully clichéd father-son bonding you see in beer commercials. So when Dad went off and procreated with the girl next door (seriously), he didn’t have much to go on.

Dad is a gentle man, in every sense of the phrase. He seldom raises his voice, and I can count the number of times he has cursed on one hand. (Once, he said shit and goddammit in the same sentence, and I braced for the Apocalypse.) I’m more of a hothead who could send both kids to college with funds from the Swear Jar, and many times I’ve wondered how he resists speaking out in certain situations. He has always been content to let his actions speak for him. He worked hard to make a life for his family, and to balance that with as much hands-on fathering as he could stand muster.

When I wanted to join Little League, Dad bought me a glove and let me pitch to him (and his creaky knees) for hours. He and I built a workbench in the basement, and he showed me how to use every tool on the pegboard. When I joined a Boy Scout troop in the next town over, he signed on as an Assistant Scoutmaster to help ease my transition into unknown territory.

Then came the College Decision.

My father, uncle, and grandfather all attended College X, and for as long as I could remember I assumed I’d go there, too. I had visited many times during reunion weekends, and as he showed me around he clearly reveled in the idea of his son retracing his footsteps. For my part, I liked the idea of continuing the tradition, of being a part of what would become a three-generation legacy.

When I was a junior, though, I visited my best friend, who had graduated a year earlier and matriculated at University Y. I loved it right away, and I knew I had a tough decision to make. Dad knew I was conflicted, and he could have easily launched a hard-core marketing campaign. Instead, he somehow stayed neutral while I dithered and agonized for weeks. Suddenly the epiphany came: If I chose Dad’s school, I was choosing it for him, but if I chose the university, I was choosing it for me. Ultimately, it was my job to choose my college experience. I screwed up the courage and told him I would turn down his alma mater’s acceptance, and he was incredibly supportive—even though I had just punched him in the gut.

Four years later, my family came down to college for Homecoming, and my dad got the chance to see the life I had built for myself at the school I chose. He raised his Scotch, looked me in the eye, and said I had made the right decision. He was proud of me. Even now, almost two decades later, I think of how much that meant to me, and all the hair on my forearms goes rigid. (Trust me, that’s saying something. I’ve got enough arm hair to contribute to Locks of Love.)

Thanks, Dad, for that moment, one of many that made fatherhood one of my primary ambitions. When it comes to raising children, we’re all groping around in the dark. But I learned a lot from you, enough to know that you can be a great father without always having all the answers. You can get sometimes get by with instinct and improv. And a willingness to let your kids think you’re a blithering idiot for a while.

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The Following Entry was written by Buzz from Buzzstuff:

Dear-Dad,-Father,-Pop,-Pa,-Daddy

Dear Bob,

Hi. How’s it going? Long time, eh? Let’s see, at last count, it was approximately 28 years. Wow! Time really flies when you’re having….well, time just really flies, I suppose.

I guess I should catch you up on the goings on in my life. Ok, here we go. Since I last spoke to you I have had several different jobs, none of much import, married a very nice girl, played in a church softball league, had a son, got divorced from that very nice girl, met another very nice girl, married into her family of three, and started up a saltwater aquarium. Yeah, that’s pretty much it in a nutshell. And while they say the devil’s in the details, I see no need to go into them here.

I have wondered, of course, what you have done. What jobs have you held? What music do you like? Are you happy? Have you ever brutally killed anyone? I wonder these things about you not because you are my father so much, but more as I wonder these things about a lot of people that I have lost contact with. I feel a little guilty that I don’t wonder more about you but hey, whatever.

Oh, and speaking of guilt, let’s chat that up a bit, shall we? After you and Mom got divorced, I think that the traditional thing to do would have been to feel like it was somehow all my fault. I never did. I always felt like it was the fault of you two. And now, after going through a divorce of my own, with three kids involved, I think I probably got that one right.

I did, however, think for a while that you not keeping in touch with me was my fault. I guess that’s natural, wouldn’t you say? Then, for a while, I thought it was all your fault. But now that I’m grown, I think that maybe it wasn’t anyone’s fault as much as it was just what happened. Do you know what I mean? No fault to dish out, it’s just the way you are. And, sadly, it’s just the way I am too. Two people inflicted with a major case of ‘outta sight, outta mind’. We were doomed from the start. If you’re anything like me, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you are, the way that you feel about this situation now is

Oh well.

And that’s really the only source of guilt that I have. I feel a little guilty that I don’t feel, well, guilty. Here, let me be clear. I’m not mad at you. I never was. I don’t dislike you. In fact, I think you’re probably a swell guy. I mean, look at me, after all. With a kid like me, you can’t be all bad, right? No, I hold no grudges or feelings of ill will against you at all. What I feel mostly is just

Oh well.

So another Father’s Day approaches and my thoughts, naturally, make their way to you and I think of the things that I know we share. Sense of humor, blue eyes, short attention span, dazzling good looks, love of Diana Ross (but only when she was with the Supremes!). And I think of my three boys and how you have helped me to decide that I will not share your sense of fatherhood. You have helped me to decide that I will always keep in touch with them. I will always respect their decisions (well, almost always) and I will forgive them their trespasses. They deserve at least that.

And as for you, Bob Bubba Robert Dad, I wish you health, happiness, love and wealth beyond your wildest dreams. I don’t think that we will ever need to get together and talk things out but I really do wish you well.

Happy Father’s Day.

Your son,

David.

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The Following entry was written by Mr. Big Dubya. You can read more of his work at Mr.bigdubya, Dadcentric, and Ronmexicosblog:

I don’t know what’s gotten into Meghan, Jenn and Jenny. First, they’re big fans of my blog and have actually called me “talented.� Honest. I kid you not. I have an e-mail to prove it. Send me a dollar and I’ll forward it to you – there will also be detailed instructions about how we can both make money forwarding this single e-mail. It’s so easy. I can’t believe it’s not illegal. Second, they asked me to write about Father Hood. Why on earth they would want me to write about some lame, 1993 movie starring Patrick Swayze is beyond me. But, this is their blog and they’ve asked me to contribute, so who am I to question their subject matter? What’s that? Oh. Not Father Hood? Fatherhood? One word? Well, that makes much more sense, though I think I could have had fun with the former.

Continue reading "An Essay Written by Mr. Big Dubya" »

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The Following entry was written by Chris of Rudecactus and Dadcentric:

When I was a kid, things seemed bigger. I know, I was smaller and, while I’m sure that had something to do with it, ordinary things seemed larger than life, more intricate, more involved. Puzzles were everywhere. Our street – which was really only a quarter of a mile long – seemed endless. The circle at the end of the cul-de-sac, around which traffic (what little there was) flowed, was mysterious. It consisted of a tall tree surrounded by bushes at the circle’s perimeter. It screamed to be used as a fort but rumors of its haunting prevented it. As an adult, I’m sure I’d be horrified to find the street short and the overgrown center island much less malevolent.

Continue reading "Father's Day Essay from Chris, of Rude Cactus" »

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The Following entry was written by Prego:

Looks like once again the fickle finger of fate has flung me under the couch - booger style.

I've never been much of an athlete. Though I’ve had respectable careers on the soccer field and the hockey rink, the shelves remain devoid of trophies. For the fifth year in a row I've been slighted in Father of the Year honors.

Damn... I thought for sure this was my year since I’ve had five years to get the sh*t right. I finally managed to get the diapers on properly so that loose stools don’t leak through. I’ve also stopped dressing the boys in mismatched and torn clothing (regardless of the fact that the O-Dog affectionately referred to his tattered jeans as his ‘punk rock pants’; apparently the missus feels they are too unsightly for Pre-K). I’ve also gotten out of the habit of asking the O-Dog, “What am I going to do to you if I ever see you smoking?�

His stock response of “Kick my ass,� apparently lost some appeal once he turned four. It seems that the “Dang. How cute…� factor doesn’t apply past thirty-six months when mild profanities are involved.

Continue reading "Second Place is the First Loser" »

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The Following essay was written by Crutonboy from Dadcentric, Cheekyshideaway, and Ronmexicosblog

This is my first Father's Day as an actual certified father. I've got the papers to prove it and everything.

I've always associated Father's Day with that mid-50s image of fatherhood--the square-jawed man who comes home from work and hangs his hat on the hat rack, gives his kids a hug, then goes outside to mow the lawn. Pressed shirts, Aqua Velva, and stern life-lessons for Wally and the Beav. It's such a classic, indelible image, yet have a hard time associating myself with it. I'm nothing like that....I don't even have a hat rack!

The mental image I have of myself is more along the lines of a rebellious loner, a beer snob who can drink you under the table, a geek who can't get his printer to work, an aimless smart-ass who is destined for greatness once someone gets around to discovering me. Also, in that mental image I look like George Clooney. None of that really fleshes out the image of fatherhood either, yet here I am with a beautiful daughter and all the responsibility, joy, and suffering that entails.

The truth lies somewhere in between.

Continue reading "An Essay from Crutonboy" »

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We are planning a great week here at Mommybloggers.

In honor of Father’s day, the Mommybloggers have lined up a series of essays from a talented group of writers, who also happen to be great dads. Starting tomorrow, and continuing until Sunday, we will share entries written by some of our favorite Dad Bloggers.

We want to honor fathers everywhere by sharing stories from the other half of the parenting team. Their essays are touching, and funny, and full of love for their kids and spouses. This is an incredible group of men, and we are so excited to feature their stories. Please stay tuned.

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