A Love Measured in Memories
I came across this article when No. 1 arrived. It deeply resonated with me. It was about fatherhood. Growing up, I hardly knew my dad. I never ruminated the implications of his absence. But in that moment, I told myself. I must give him I never had. Love. Guidance. Presence. I had no blueprint to follow, but this tiny human deserved nothing less than my best effort. And so began my journey into fatherhood, measured not in gifts, but in precious memories we would create together.
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A Love Measured in Memories
A large part of my working life was spent behind bars as a prison officer. For 17 years, I was surrounded by inmates from different backgrounds; drug addicts and hardcore criminals, among others. I saw first-hand what bad or absent parenting, especially fathering, could do to children and adults.
I knew early on in my own family life (picture), from watching these men and their lives, what kind of father I wanted to be. In recent years, I have been working with at-risk children and youths and multi-problem families, and have been struck by the absence of a father-figure in their lives.
My professional life has taught me a simple principle I hold very dear: It is easier to build boys and children than to fix men and adults.
A few years ago, I did what an article suggested: Close my eyes and recall scenes of my dad and myself.
What I "saw" was me waiting eagerly outside my house for dad to return (he worked in a shipyard) because I missed him; him holding my right hand and teaching me to write Chinese characters, he was educated only up to Primary 4 in China; me snuggling up to his side at night to hear stories of his childhood and how he came to here; his constant advice to me to study hard, not to smoke and drink.
I think about what I would want my daughter and son to recall if they were put through a similar exercise years from now. I hope they would be images of lasting memories we have created for ourselves, of time spent together, playing board games and bedtime routines.
I am reminded of a saying that "if you want to be in your children's memories tomorrow, you have to be in their lives today".
My commitment to family life was not a natural occurrence. Some years ago, I had a terrible day at work. And what do fathers do after a bad day? We come home and sit in front of our favourite "box" the Xbox, the computer, the television.
Mine was the TV. This was how I de-stressed. That night, I was watching an early episode of American Idol where contestants made fools of themselves.
My wife asked why I was not helping her with the kids. I didn't want to bother her with my work problems, so I kept quiet. That night, we didn't talk to each other.
The next day I received a long email from her in which she expressed her unhappiness. In the last paragraph, she shared that, while everyone else looked up to me, at work or within my other circles, no one knew what I was like at home.
This was my wake-up call - no point being a hero outside and a zero at home!
I stopped watching TV (I've since resumed watching a bit as my kids are older now). I read to my children, play board games with them and tuck my son into bed at night.
A couple of years ago, I received the best Father's Day gift ever. My son gave me a hand-drawn card. Each page had a picture and a sentence like "Thank you for reading books to me" or "Thank you for telling me ghost stories". When I held that card in my hand, I knew it was all worth the sacrifice.
My dad has been my hero. I am what I am because of the sacrifices he made for his family. I spent a fair bit of time with him at the hospital early this year when he was being treated for cancer. Once, while I was following him closely on a trip to the bathroom to make sure I'd be there to catch him if he fell, it dawned upon me that that was what my dad did for me when I was a little toddler – walking behind me, watching me carefully, ready to dive forward to catch me.
On another occasion, when he was staying with me after his discharge from hospital, I took him downstairs for a walk.
All of a sudden, my dad turned to me and, with a twinkle in his eyes, said: "When you were young, I took you out for walks. Now, you take me out for walks."
As we rested on a bench, my 10-year-old son came up to sit with us. My dad looked at my son and said in dialect: "Your dad looks after you now. Make sure you look after your dad when he is old, just like what he is doing for me now."
My son smiled and nodded, and flew off to play again.
The richness of a father's love is best measured in the lasting memories we leave for our children.
These memories will one day guide them and comfort them as they comfort me.