Childhood

Childhood is a most queer flame-lit and shadow-chilled time. Think once more how the world wavers and intones above us then. Parents behave down toward us as if they are tribal gods, as old and unarguable and almighty as thunder. Other figures loom in from next door and the schoolyard and a thousand lanes of encounter, count coup on us with whatever lessons of life they brandish, then ghost off.
So says Ivan Doig in his memoir "This House of Sky."

One day, a father appeared in my life, and I was he. Not until I became that person did I recognize some of the effects of a father's absence. Robbi the cognitive-behavioral therapist asked me before I had a child if I was prepared. She later reminded me of that as I recited a litany of anxiety-inducing issues associated with having had a child. That question, though, defies an adequate response. How could I have known whether I was prepared? Had I known then what I know now, I would have said that I lacked sufficient preparation, as everyone does.
Had a father accompanied me throughout my tortuous, and torturous, journey, perhaps such a characterization would prove unjustified. The catch being that a bad father who sticks around might be worse than no father at all. Or perhaps a bad father could provide an example of what not to do. My mother helped in that regard, by serving as an example of the kind of parent to avoid. The converse being that a halfway-decent father might help prepare a son for becoming a father himself.
I take into account my own childhood confusion, and the general challenges associated with a child's attempt to process experiences, when I attempt to look at situations from my children's perspective. I like to think I don't act like a tribal god, in the words of Mr. Doig. But when you have your kids' best interests at heart and the conviction that you know better, behaving in a manner that accommodates their sensitivities can be difficult. The great weight of responsibility deriving from having sired children can stand in the way of gentility.
Rather, I would like to come across as someone who has more experience and cognitive capabilities, though I often feel unqualified to provide guidance. I can, however, provide reassurance that someone will be there who will listen and wants the best for them. They'll probably resent the intrusion eventually but would never be the same people had they not had that kind of guidance in the first place.
Exclusive of reading, writing, coaching, etc., I'm present. One of my priest friends once gave a sermon about being there, after he had called me earlier in the week and swung by when his father was dying of cancer. He didn't want to be alone. I'm at least a presence, and not a malevolent one, though surely not always perceived as benevolent.
Unwittingly to them and for a while to me, my kids have provided a mirror in which I not only see myself but in which I also search for a glimpse of my father. Sometimes I don't like what I see, but I don't turn away; I have to fill the the void that I never knew existed.