First Time Fathers

Among the memorabilia turned over to me after my mother died five years ago was a letter that my father had written to my mother soon after my older brother was born. At the time, my father was stationed in England, serving in the Army Air Force during World War II. He was writing to respond to a letter he had just received from home letting him know he was a father for the first time. I’m not sure just why my brother entrusted the letter to me—after all, it’s really about him—but I’m glad to have it. Collecting and retelling our family history is part of my role.

I wasn’t sure how to write about that letter. Then I began reading a book of short essays on fatherhood by comedian Jim Gaffigan entitled Dad Is Fat. The title’s appeal to me is obvious. As one of my friends used to say, “I resemble that remark.” I also can relate to a lot of the feelings and mixed emotions that Gaffigan describes. Having been a father for nearly 38 years now, I think I should understand the role pretty well, but I still question my value sometimes and often rightfully doubt my expertise.

But this blogpost is really about beginnings—how three different fathers responded to their first days of fatherhood.

I can tell you from experience that it is hard to figure out your father role at first. Here is Gaffigan’s take:

The newborn stage is a special time. It’s really a sacred time when nobody expects you to do anything except enjoy your bundle of joy. This sacred time lasts roughly 20 minutes, and then you become the publicity agent for the mother and baby. The masses of family and friends want to be assured the mother is okay and get information on the baby. For some reason, it’s really important for people to know how much the baby weighs. This has always baffled me. It’s rude. She’s not even a day old, and people seem to be obsessed with my daughter’s weight.  She was nine pounds, but I remember telling friends, “She’s eight pounds, sixteen ounces” because it sounded thinner.

My father’s letter of response was not as humorous as Gaffigan’s, But it did have a funny connection to Gaffigan’s story, as you can see below. It was filled with wonder and romance and seemed so UNLIKE the quiet reserved man I would come to know a few years later. In fact, I felt that I was trespassing a little bit as I read the letter, though I am glad I did. It was addressed to “Dearest One and Skippy” and started this way:

Gosh “Sweet,” today was my lucky day. I finally received a letter from you dated April 21 [three days after my brother was born and almost exactly 75 years ago], and was I glad to hear from you. I believe this was the most welcome letter I have ever received from you. Today was also payday, and naturally as I only draw 8 pounds, I decided to invest a couple and send Skippy his first birthday present. . . .

Glad to hear that you and Skippy are getting along so good, but, Sweet, do you think I am a mind reader? Do you know you didn’t tell me how much Skippy weighed or even his birthday? . . . .

 .

Good night, sweet dreams, and God bless you both.

My parents took this picture several months before my
brother was born. My father enclosed it in his letter.

The third new-father response was mine. After our son Brett was born, healthy but a little bit yellow from jaundice, Audrey stayed in the hospital with the baby for a few extra days. I decided to surprise her with some better-than-hospital food from a deli near the hospital. I ordered the food, waited for a few minutes as it was prepared, and then got impatient to start my visit with my new son. 

As I moved toward the deli’s front door, the counterman shouted, “Hey, don’t you want your food?”

I blushed a little as I turned around and reached for the bag. Then I started toward the door again. 

“Hey, aren’t you going to pay for the food?” he shouted with a laugh. I made a quick apology and got out my wallet.

“By any chance, did your wife just have a baby?” the counterman inquired.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Just a wild guess,” he replied.

I would like to think by the time my second child, Amanda, was born and I became a second-time father, that I had gotten a little smoother. But she would probably be the first one to tell you that smoothness is not my style then or now. Alas, our children know us too well.

Audrey, Brett, and me soon after our family got bigger and better.