Fatherhood Freestyle: Not Your Average Baby Daddy, Part I

My mother raised me and my older sister by herself. We had little means, lived in public housing, and like all parents, she always wanted and expected more for us. Throughout my childhood, I observed my mother as she ripped and ran, worked up to three jobs simultaneously, and developed no healthy romantic relationships (that I can remember, anyway). So as a kid, I made a commitment to myself that I was never going to be anybody’s “baby daddy.” Oh, how the universe has a way of telling us that we are so not in control. Well, kinda.

At 31, I am a single dad, but my story has a twist –a twist that has statistically become more common these days. I am the ballet and gymnastics dad, a man in a room full of middle-aged suburban moms who drive minivans. I set up play dates, I help other parents (usually moms) pick up their kids, and I arrange that expensive, draining, and anticlimactic birthday party every year. Hell, I even brought my daughter to get her first pedicure and sports bra….and I did this all as a full student struggling to make ends meet. Yup, these experiences as the custodial father of a nine-year-old girl have truly given me insight into my mother’s life as the prototypical single mother.

Although I am extremely comfortable in my role as a single father, there is one question that I am inevitably asked and still makes me squeamish: “So, what happened to her mother?” And, of course, there are always those who declare, “I do not see how a mother could leave her child. A little girl needs her mother.” Now, as a PhD psychologist with a dissertation on and specialized training in nontraditional parenting and youth development, I have plenty to say to those who truly believe daughters need their mothers more than their fathers, but I will refrain from doing so for the time being. Instead, I’ll tell the story about how I became a single dad, and why the process has made me a better man.

Imagine a 20-year-old black male studying abroad in the Dominican Republic with one more year of college. Now imagine this guy in what was supposed to be a fling with an American woman. That woman becomes pregnant, and now this man is less than a year away from becoming a “baby daddy”. That wasn’t me, only because I refused to be the average “baby daddy.” The rest is definitely me. However, my plan to avoid being labeled had one huge snag — I wasn’t in love with her. I told myself I would do anything short of marrying her in order to keep my promise to myself, even if it meant being in what I knew would be an unsatisfying relationship that was destined to deteriorate over time. So, she graduated a semester early, moved to the South where I was working on my Bachelors degree, and we shacked up while I took classes. A few months later, our baby was born, a beautiful little girl with an instant bond with her daddy.

I must admit I was a great father, but a horrible boyfriend. I was a willing participant in multiple “minor indiscretions,” and I was dismissive and uncaring toward her. I graduated soon thereafter; and even though I was not happy, I dragged her to a different state so I could attend graduate school. Our relationship suffered for a year or so and shortly after being laid off, she finally decided she’d had enough. She lacked emotional and social support, and she wanted to “be around family and friends” back north (her voiced desire to be closer to “family” is still quite ironic to me). Ever the negotiator, I convinced her that our then two-year-old would be better served by remaining with me. After all, I had purchased a home, my daughter was attending a great Spanish immersion preschool, and we were becoming part of the community. Furthermore, we both knew my daughter had a stronger bond with me. The feelings of elation and freedom I experienced as she walked to her car to make that long trip back home remain salient to this day. Also, I will never forget my daughter (what appeared to me to be) gleefully waving goodbye as her mother drove off in a packed car, only to turn to me and say “Daddy, I hungry” as I closed the house door. At that point, it seemed clear to me that my daughter could still have a “normal life” with me as the primary parent. In fact, I’d argue that she is much better off not having to grow up in a house where unhappy and unhealthy relationships are normalized and modeled. It was just my daughter and me, and I was excited to be the best dad I could be.

It is now 2009, and I cringe as I sit here writing about how I was in the relationship with my daughter’s mother. I have apologized, and sometimes I believe she forgives me. At other times, I am sure she hasn’t. After countless hours of reflecting over the past seven years, I have learned so much about myself — the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly. However, I believe I am a much better person, father, and partner because of it. And my daughter? Well, she is a well-adjusted, self-possessed, and opinionated “normal” nine-year-old girl.

As I navigate through single fatherhood, I realize it has been anything but easy. However, I am happy I can tell this story and confidently inform the naysayers that little girls need their fathers too.

3 Words of Advice on Parenting from the “Other” House: Just do it!

I am the product of what was once described as a broken home, not an accurate label since something has to be whole before it can be broken.  My parents were never married; and for the first 9 years of my life, I had few if any thoughts of who or where my father was.  I remember a few questions which popped up when I compared the lives of my classmates to my own, but these questions were usually brushed off by my mother, and in truth, I wasn’t that interested in the answers.  And, when my father did make an appearance, it was more about seeing his old flame than his not-so-new son.

As I grew and became more observant and aware of my life and my mother’s past, I began to feel the void of not having this figure in my life.  Or, more accurately, I had this shadow figure in my life–the hint of a presence but nothing I could put my hands on.  In the interest of making this long story short, let’s just say that from the events and feelings I had about my upbringing and childhood, I made a commitment in my early teens that no child of mine would have to repeat my experience. There would be no absentee dad, occasional visits and less frequent presents.  I would be there to be the best parent that I could.  So, when my high school sweetheart and long-time girlfriend and I became pregnant, despite some flutters of doubt, getting married was not much of a question. I’d made my commitment in the midst of all those raging hormones and teen angst. What else could I do?

Twenty years and a few marriage counseling sessions later, we were divorced. The picture that I had dreaded and worked so hard not to have was realized in full color. My daughter and son were in one house, and I lived in another.

I made an effort to see them as often as time would allow. There was no schedule or regular pattern to be followed. I would drop by during the week after work, pick up my son, who was nine at the time, every weekend, take my daughter to the movies, and play chauffer on her dates.  I called and tried to be as strong a presence in their lives as I was when we all lived in the same house.  But as I’m sure many of you in my situation have discovered, that is an illusion as elusive as an oasis in the desert; in sight but out of reach.  And, while my ex and I weren’t involved in a battle royale of who’s the better parent, using the kids as chips or pawns, we were clearly not on the same page on several issues.

One of my biggest frustrations was the sharing of information, or lack thereof. As the custodial parent, my ex recieved all the conference notifications, permission slips, party invites, etc.  This hit me more than you might imagine, because prior to this I proudly bore the title of ‘Snack Dad’.  Every month, when the kids had to provide snacks to the class, I was the one spreading peanut butter on the rice cakes, making sure that everyone got seconds, making sure that the celery was well cleaned and that the various fillings, cheese, dressing and the old standby, peanut butter, fit neatly and looked appealing.  I was a hands-on dad being pushed, exiled and condemned to the sidelines.  And, I couldn’t seem to get her to understand how I wanted to be given a copy of everything!  It was the least she could do to allow me to still feel like a parent.  Despite my awareness of my feelings and real efforts to be the father I envisioned, I would feel the pain of competition for my kids’ affection or worse their acknowledgement of my existence and relevance to their lives.

But, as I learned to work through my feelings and continued to strive for some sort of balance, I achieved what I was looking for by just doing it… In a moment of clarity I finally realized that you can’t just want to be a parent–you have to actually do it! You are and never stop being a parent. It’s up to you to define what that looks like.  I didn’t just pick up my son on weekends because I could or should, but because I wanted to. And, when we were together, it was like we were home in that place of the past; we played, talked, ate and cried.  When I brought my daughter to a date or appointment, we spoke and discussed the same things we did in her bedroom or in our old living room.

Being out of the house is not the same as being in the house. But in, out or wherever, we are all still parents, for better or worse, and our kids reap the benefits or carry the burden of our actions. So, just do it!