Helping my son with his projects is harder than I ever imagined
Each year I help my 9-year-old, Tristan, make a pinewood derby car for Cub Scouts. It's always a scramble. Not because I'm lazy. More because I'm not the best with tools. Or fixing things.
I work behind a desk at a university and I have very soft hands. But since becoming a husband and father I've had to overcome a lot of that. I mean, I’m still not a craftsman by any means, and I still don’t own all that many tools. But slowly I’m figuring it out. I watch a lot of how-to YouTube videos and I swear a lot. And sometimes, like with Tristan's car, I have to ask friends for help.
I don't know why I dislike asking other men to help with projects. It might be a pride thing. It feels like, as a man, I ought to have this stuff down, like I should’ve been born with a hammer in my hand. But because I wasn't, there's something wrong with me.
Some of it comes down to the fact that I didn't have a good relationship with my own father, and working with tools, in some strange way, reminds me of what I never had with him.
My father left when I was 9, the same age as my son Tristan. He died from drug addiction when I was 19. He was in and out of my childhood. He spent some time in jail. Mostly for drinking and prescription drugs. I used to visit him there. We’d often chat through a crackling plastic phone with a metal cable, each of us separated by thick glass, my father in an orange jumpsuit, me in baggy jeans.
The whole time I longed for things to be different. I longed for him to be more accessible. For him to be the father that I always wanted. The kind of Home Improvement Tim Taylor style of father that might help me learn how to work on a car, or build something out of wood.
But that wasn’t the relationship we had, and so when I went into being a father I felt really insecure. I felt like there was no way I had the skill set to be a decent father because I didn’t have one of my own.
I feel this the most when I work with tools. Dad was a heating and air conditioning contractor. He was good with his hands. I often wish he’d shown me how all that worked, but he never did, and every time I work with tools, I think about him.
And I think about it the most when I work with my son.
But what I don't often think about until I get into it is how I'm rebuilding the moments I missed with my father, with my kids right now. Sure, I'm on the other end of the equation. But it feels warm nevertheless.
One of these moments happened when Tristan and I went to visit a friend in his garage. I knew this friend from church. He worked for a handmade furniture store and built rowboats in his spare time. He’s about 10 years older than me, and it felt good to have him help me. But at the time I hated to have to ask him.
So much of parenting is about humbling yourself and asking for help when you are lost. And even though I feel insecure about my role as a father because I didn’t have one in my life, I think most parents feel this way regardless at some point. They feel like they ought to know how to do everything from disciplining to changing diapers, but the fact is, parenting is a complicated equation with a lot of turning gears.
It works differently with each child, and no matter how prepared you think you are, chances are you have no idea what you are doing.
Tristan and I talked about what he wanted the car to look like, then my friend told us how to use the tools he had. Once it was all said and done Tristan looked up at me with a big dimpled smile and told me, "Thanks."
Tristan isn’t a talkative kid. For the most part he’s shy. He’s one of those kids that when you ask him about his school day, he puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs. No details. No stories. Nothing. Zero, zip, zilch, nada.
But there was something about the way he looked up at me. Something in his blue eyes that told me this was more than some preteen sarcastic thanks, but a real one. I got the impression that he was going to remember this moment for a long time.
I’m not sure if all this is going to make him better at working with his hands. And I don’t know if it will make him feel more secure once he’s my age and trying to be a father himself. But what I do know is that I gave him something my father rarely gave me.
A father-and-son moment.
And right then, with that simple smile, all those insecurities of fatherhood and masculinity melted away. I gave him a hug, told him, "You're welcome, dude,” and we talked about what color we wanted to paint his car.
For more from Clint Edwards visit No Idea What I'm Doing: A Daddy Blog and his Facebook page. And don't forget to SHARE with friends and family!
