When my son arrived in 2017, advice poured in on bottles and bassinets — yet almost nothing about what it truly means to be a father.
Bill Cosby’s trial looped on hospital TVs. Donald Trump, proud of never changing a diaper, had just taken office. #MeToo challenged masculinity on the left while the right doubled down on tradition.
Parenting guides offered no answers, and my own dad — weakened by a stroke — couldn’t mentor me. As a historian, I began combing five millennia of Western fatherhood for a better model.
Ancient tablets, Roman edicts, Tudor laws: all echoed the same refrain — fathers claiming god-like authority. Shuruppak of Sumer pleaded, “My son, heed my precious instructions.” Across crises, leaders from Aristotle to Henry VIII boosted paternal power, often with disastrous results.
Six years in, I still hadn’t found a gentle, humane template. It dawned on me: fathers chase perfection partly to rival women’s visible power to create life.
Strolling with my son, I finally asked what a dad should be. His answer: “Funny and good at hugging.” No ancient text offered that clarity.
Now we bird-watch after dinner instead of playing baseball. Bad Bunny replaces Bob Dylan on car rides. By entering his world, I grow alongside him.
“Father” stems from infants’ first syllables — “fa,” “pa,” “da” — utterances directed at the person who helps them. The sound itself is a request for care.
Fatherhood needn’t command; it can accompany. Less directing, more listening. Not gods — just present, arms open for a solid hug.
Leave a Comments