Bridging Generations

No one would ever nominate me for Father of The Year. I never knew if what I was doing in order to rear my children was right. Their mother assisted greatly in that effort. For much of their formative years I was frequently putting in well over eighty hours a week at work. I felt like the rewards would come later.

By the way, they never did.

In 1995, when my oldest was nine and my youngest was four, I had an epiphany. Maybe it was because of my blood infection and dangerously elevated fever. The subsequent open-heart surgery to replace a valve played into it as well. I barely survived, actually dying on the operating table seven times. When I returned home from the hospital, there was a banner across the garage doors. It said 'Welcome home Dad. We all missed you!"

As a father, if seeing something like that doesn't make your eyes misty, maybe you lack a heart. Anyway, there is something seriously wrong with you. I shed some tears.

My kids were waiting in the driveway. They had been to the hospital to see me, but that was not the same as a real welcome home hug from each of them. If there was ever a doubt whether they loved me, it vaporized in those few moments of shared celebrated joy.

Dad was home. All was right with the world. I was going to change a few things about the way I approached being a father.

Throughout the following years, we suffered a lot, but we held together because we are a family. I truly believe that the defining moments of my fatherhood were those few months of recovery, when I felt the warmth of the affection my children returned to me. It changed the way I perceived the universe. Nothing in the world was more important to me than my kids.

For years, whenever I was home for their bedtime, I told my daughters bedtime stories. Sometimes they preferred me to read stories to them, the works of other writers. But usually they were waiting for the next installment in the saga of Ela'na The Wolfcat, a fictional fantasy creation of mine. Sometimes, my son would also listen in. I created for him a character named Rotor, a male Wolfcat who was desperately in love with Ela'na but was also the most gifted hunter of all the Pack.

I guess I wanted my kids to hear the types of stories I felt are important. It was unusual, of course. I'm sure exactly zero of their friends' fathers told them bedtime stories as opposed to reading something borne of someone else's imagination. As time went by, my kids, especially my daughters, asked me specific questions about Ela'na and Rotor. This actually provided me with some invaluable insight into how they perceived the characters and led to producing a series of novels a few years later.

As my kids began to grow-up, they chose their own stories to read at bedtime, novels or novellas. My eldest daughter told me that once I had written an 'actual' book - meaning printed and bound - she would read it. Some years later, while it was in the process of being edited for publication, she designed the cover graphics.  She was thirteen.

She lived up to her promise. It took me years and years to write the first novel. It took her two days to read it.

As a father of three teens, I think what made me different was that I really didn't think I was superior to my kids. I had rules and they understood them. I was blessed with good kids who stayed out of trouble, came home when they were expected and studied because they understood the value of knowledge and how it would affect their futures.

My kids might tell you differently, but I tried not to play favorites. Each of my children was important to me. They were emerging as individuals so dramatically different from one another that I was a bit surprised with each of them, except I could see elements of both their mother and me within them.

One of my son's friends told him that I was not like any other father he knew. He said I was really like a fifteen year old trapped in an old man's body. When my son told me that, I laughed. I was 51 at the time. So, I said, "I guess I have 'temporal dyslexia'." Another Elgonism was borne.

Trying to play the cool, the hip father type, was not me. I had been around pretenders and really never understood why they couldn't just accept some of the things their kids like. Certainly, I did not adapt to or adopt everything my kids were into. They are avid video gamers, for example. I am not. I could almost master Pong and I beat Pacman and Centipede a few times. Asteroids was my game in the day. After that, I gave up on video game, although I was 'deadeye Dick' at Duck Hunt on the kids' first Nintendo system.

When my youngest daughter was 15 years old, I took her to a rock concert. Her mother insisted that she couldn't go alone with her friend. But it was her favorite band, Green Day. Honestly, I liked some of the group's music, too. The only way her mother would consent to letting her go was if I went with her and her friend. Despite having been a seasoned veteran of dozens of concerts in the 1970's as well as being a rock musician at that time, I had not attended a rock show since 1982. Concerts changed a lot over the years. That night, I learned first hand about mosh-pits.

The following summer, I took all three kids to an all-day rock festival in Orlando. Sunburned and worn out, we drove home well after midnight. I had to work the next morning and paid for being at the concert in a whole different way.

Making memories is what families are supposed to do with their time together. It's why taking vacations to Disneyworld, Universal, Seaworld, Busch Gardens or some other destination is popular. Weekend outings and shorter-term adventures fill in the gaps between the monumental memories. Special events like birthday parties should be outstanding occasions as well. Every holiday needs to be remembered.

Not only are the memories for the kids but also the parents. After the kids are adults and out on their own, the good times are all you have to cling to between their irregular visits.