The Bridge Between Fathers

For 19 years, I was lucky enough to celebrate Father’s Day from both sides of the holiday. Like a lot of things in life, I didn’t appreciate how special that was until it was gone. I was a bridge between two generations, both shaping the man I’ve become. Through that bridge flowed the lessons of the past and the promise of tomorrow.

“Take this letter that I give you,

Take it sonny, hold it high

You won’t understand a word that’s in it

But you’ll write it all again before you die”

- Brian May, “Father To Son”

When my first wife and I were expecting our oldest child, we avoided finding out the gender in advance. I felt a sense of relief when the doctor announced that I had a daughter, as I am not the type of guy who watches football on Sundays, plays basketball with his buddies, or participates in other types of “guy” rituals. It was bad enough worrying about the fragility of this little human, and I didn’t want to also feel responsible for instilling a son’s masculinity.

I settled easily into my new role as Dad. My daughter was an easy-going baby who grew into a tenacious, confident child (and then a strong, independent woman). As her personality developed, I saw a lot of myself in her, and we enjoyed a close bond. Ironically, she became the jock of the family.

My father and I had vastly different personalities, but sharing the title of “Dad” brought our similarities into focus. I always knew my dad had a way of calming babies, and our family’s growth is documented in photos of each new arrival curled up beside him on a couch. The effect was mutual. He was a man who was always on the go, but in these pictures, he was always asleep.

On a trip back to New York to visit my Parents, my dad and I watched the baby while our wives ran errands. They came back to find all three of us asleep.

As easy as it was for him to settle into his role as a grandfather to a baby, my father faced challenges as my daughter grew. He would sometimes jump automatically into a disciplinarian role, even when her mother or I were around to correct her behavior.

My dad and I had vastly different parenting styles, and I am sure that he did not trust me completely to get the job done. It was an uncomfortable conversation when I had to remind him that he was the grandfather, and that he should just enjoy his grandchild. But by the time his second grandchild was on the way, he had grown more comfortable in his role.

We knew before my son was born that he would be a boy. With the confidence of already having one child, I was not as intimidated by this prospect. That confidence was quickly called into question, as my son was the exact opposite of his sister.

Apparently, stubbornness is a trait that runs in the males of our family. This showed itself shortly after my son was born, when he had a crying fit so bad that he popped out his belly button. His mother freaked out, but a call to the pediatrician assured her that it was relatively normal. Our sanity was in more danger than his health.

This streak continued as he grew. As the youngest in the family, my son did not like going to bed first. I don’t think that he liked the fact that life was still going on without him, and he would put up epic fights. One time, I came home from night classes to find my ex-wife holding his door closed, crying and pleading for him to “just go to bed.”

My dad was spending more time with us then because we were building a new room in my house. He was present for some of these bedtime tantrums, and in every case, he stayed out of the fight. I could sense his eagerness to intervene, but he resisted. He had succeeded in becoming “Poppy.”

During these trips, my son became my dad’s little buddy. He would come home from preschool, go right to the refrigerator, and grab a beer for my dad. They would then sit and talk about their days as my father would take his longest break of the day. All day, my dad and I would struggle to maintain a conversation, but the two of them, with days that had nothing in common, talked with ease. I was content just listening in and being happy for them both.

In my father’s retirement years, and especially through my divorce, we grew closer. Conversations were no longer forced, and we found that we had more in common than those days working on a room had indicated. I did not share his passion for the New York Giants, but we both ended up being very passionate about politics. It also turned out that negotiating divorce court required skills that were not too different from the ones he excelled at in his corporate life.

When I married Nicole, I not only found my soul mate but also became a father to three bouncing eight-year-old triplets. With these new grandchildren, my father showed that he had perfected the art of being Poppy. The patience and calmness that were once reserved only for babies were now extended to full-grown children; this was definitely not the man I remembered from my childhood. His journey was complete, even if I was not ready for it to end.

“What have I become

My sweetest friend

Everyone I know

Goes away in the end”

- Trent Reznor, “Hurt”

Uncharacteristically, my father had become a fan of Nine Inch Nails when we dragged him on a three‑generational outing to Woodstock ’94. Therefore, it seemed natural to ask my son to play the song “Hurt” on the piano for my father’s memorial service. He was unfamiliar with it, but I was amazed as he learned and perfected his performance within a day. Up until this part of the service, I had been rather numb as I listened to people talk about my dad. However, listening to my son play filled me with such pride that it brought the moment into clarity. My fears of having a son were unfounded.

Today, I look back on the time since my dad’s death and feel the weight of everything we didn’t get to share. He has missed so many marriages and births, achievements and challenges, victories and failures. There are countless moments when I still wish I could call him for advice or to just work through a problem.

When my first grandson was about to be born, my daughter and her husband went to each of the grandparents‑in‑waiting to ask what they wanted to be called. My first inclination was to wait and allow the baby to decide, as it was my daughter who, without prompting, started referring to my father as “Poppy.” But as the time grew closer, I thought a lot about my dad’s evolution in the role, and my choice was made.

While I no longer get to celebrate the holiday with my father, I do still celebrate his role in making me the father that I became. I will also get to spend time with my grandsons. They call me “Poppy.”