When Did You First Realize You Were a Dad?

Not a parent, not a father, but a dad.

“Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad.”

― Anne Geddes

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“The power of a dad in a child’s life is unmatched.”

― Justin Ricklefs

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“A dad carries pictures where his money used to be.”

― Steve Martin

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In every man's life there comes a moment when he goes from advice seeker to advice dispenser.

The age at which this transition occurs varies, and graphed out, looks like a broken bell curve—with most making this shift in their fifties or sixties, while a surprising number never make the transition at all, remaining perpetual seekers until their final breath.

I was recently reminded that I’m (mostly) on the backside of this transition when one of our Christmas Eve guests, a young, newly minted father, who I only knew peripherally, awkwardly approached me, and, after some perfunctory and equally awkward small talk, dropped a bombshell.

“When did you first feel like a father?” he said.

Momentarily caught off guard, I asked if he could expand on the question a bit.

He confided that though he was "all in" on being a father—a phrase that often signals the speaker is actually "all out"—he was struggling to bond with his newborn son.

“I mean, my wife connected with him right away,” he said.

“Yes, that’s what they do,” I offered.

“Really?” he said, seemingly taken aback.

“Yes, they’re wired that way. It’s in women’s nature,” I said.

“Well, I don’t think you can generalize about this,” he began. “Some women don’t automatically…”

“Let me stop you right there,” I said.

It may have been the effects of the season or of the fine Belgian beer I was drinking that caused me to cut him off.

Perhaps it was the fact that my patience was worn thin after my wife and I had busted our asses for two days straight in order to put on a celebration feast, the likes of which our guests, including mister I-don’t-know-you-and-am-a-guest-in-your-house have never seen before.

Maybe it was because I wanted to cut the bullshit and do this guy a solid.

Maybe I just wanted to give this scared and uncertain young man a straight answer to his question. A real answer. An answer that would help him understand that his feelings were not only normal but nearly universal.

Or maybe it was because I was once this young man.

Eh, it was probably the beer.

In any case, I continued…

“Look, I’m sure there are some women who don’t bond with their child right away and some guys who do. But let’s just forget about the theoretical, and the edge cases, and the exceptions to the rule. I’m going to give you my take on how things work based upon my experience and the experience of almost every guy I’ve ever known. And you can take some, all, or none of it. I don’t care. Deal?”

“Deal,” he replied, and I sensed a slight relief that he didn’t have to continue with his indoctrinated speech.

“Okay,” I said. “For most guys, the arrival of his first born is 25% anxiety, 25% sheer terror, 40% wanting to run away, and 5%-10% curiosity mixed with a feeling he thinks might be, but probably isn’t, but is still probably somewhat adjacent to love.”

“And that's totally normal. In fact, if you're not at least a little bit terrified, you're probably not taking it seriously enough."

"Really?" he asked.

"Really.”

“You see,” I continued, “mothers have nine months of physical changes, hormonal shifts, and a growing connection to prepare them. For us guys, it's mostly an abstract concept until suddenly there's this tiny human who depends on us completely. It's overwhelming. But here's the thing—that feeling of being overwhelmed, of not being ready? That's part of the process."

“It technically starts at the moment of birth, when the doctor says, "Mr. Lund, would you like to cut the umbilical cord?" and I respond, "Get that thing away from me!”

“From that moment on you’re a parent and can mark “1” down under dependents. But your not yet a father. That doesn’t happen until you feel a bond with your child. And for guys, that takes time.”

“So when did it change for you?” he said.

“At six months,” I replied.

“Six months?”

“Yep, six months. Give or take a month, that’s about the time when most men bond with their child. And it happens when you least expect it.”

“For me it was a random weekday when my wife was taking a nap and I was on duty with our first born. She was fussing and crying and I was rocking her in my arms, trying to get her settled down. And suddenly she stopped crying and looked at me.”

“I’m going to try and describe something here that is virtually indescribable unless you’ve experienced it firsthand, but I could see in her eyes that she knew who I was. Then she smiled at me. And at that moment, in every fiber of my being, I knew I was a father.”

“Wow,” he said. “That’s amazing.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“So six months?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Six months. Don’t worry, it will happen for you too.”

“I hope so,” he said.

“And at some point after that you’ll also realize that you’re not only a father, but a dad as well.”

“Wait,” he said. “What’s the difference between a father and a dad?”

"Being a father is something that runs deep in your core. It’s primitive in a sense—focused on providing safety and security for your child. It’s the role of protector, writ large.”

“Being a dad is similar in that it’s instinctual and protective in nature, but it’s more concerned with the day-to-day issues in your child’s life rather than the existential ones.”

“Okay, so when did you first realize you were a dad?” he asked.

And so I proceeded to tell him this story.

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It was an uncharacteristically cold and rainy day at the "Happiest Place on Earth That Charges $100 A Pop to Get In."

The occasion was my daughter's birthday, and my wife and I visited the Magic Kingdom with her, my young son, and four cousins in tow.

I know what you're thinking, pretty smart move, taking six pre-pubescent kids to Disneyland. Why not enter a cat herding contest while you're at it?

And in years past you might have been right. But I had done my research and knew that Disney's new park, California Adventure, had opened next door, and at that park they served alcohol.

Now let me take a moment and say that I've never been the type to self-medicate with alcohol, nor would I ever recommend anyone do so. However, if I'm spending twelve hours with six kids at an amusement park, I'm going to be self-medicating with alcohol.

And I reasoned that Disneyland surely had to have caught up with its newer, hipper sister park and added adult beverages to their eclectic menu of cotton candy, turkey legs, and churros. Right?

Wrong.

It wasn't until I was well into the bowels of the park that I realized Disneyland was still as dry as a Utah township on Sunday. Well, with the exception of the ultra-exclusive Club 33, where only those who paid upwards of $10,000 per year for membership could imbibe.

So, after a few fruitless minutes on the phone with my bank attempting to convince them to raise my ATM limit to $10,000, I accepted my sober fate and geared up for a long day. And it was a long day.

Despite the weather and the holiday season, the park was jam-packed, with lines regularly taking up to an hour to navigate. Which is why, after queuing up for hours on end, I was shocked to hear one of the cousins yell, "Come on, over here. There's no line at all."

She was right. So I grabbed my son, and with my daughter scrambling behind, we zigzagged through the empty turnstiles and in seconds arrived at the front of the line, only a few people short of boarding.

What luck I thought. I finally caught a break. But what ride was this? I wondered silently? A rustic looking bear held a hand carved sign bearing the answer.

Splash Mountain.

Splash, as in water. How much water could rain down on me and my kids on this cold and blustery day I wondered? Turns out, quite a lot.

"Oh, you'll get really wet on this," came the overly cheerful response from the blissfully insane "Cast Member" in charge of launching faux-logs full of eager guests into a man-made river of ice cold water.

"Especially since you're in the front," she added.

I knew I was in trouble when I peered back at the couple in the rear of our log—obviously Disneyland pros—who looked like deckhands from an episode of Deadliest Catch, donning hooded slickers with drawstring pulls, ready, it seemed, to take on whatever Slash Mountain, or a Nor'easter, could throw at us.

My kids and I on the other hand were all wearing the same exceptionally inadequate outfit, a light sweater over a T-shirt, our jackets conveniently left on the bench where we sat during a break in the rain, just before the clarion call of the cousin first materialized.

In my head, I began to do parental math.

If my kids get soaked right now, they are going to be wet the whole day, and they (read, I) will be miserable. With that thought in mind, I sprang into action.

"Take off your sweaters," I yelled. They did so and I balled them up and stuffed them best I could into the baseball cap I was wearing. That then was wrapped in my sweater and stuffed under the back of my T-shirt.

No doubt I looked like a modern-day Quasimodo as I tried to push the mass behind me into the concaved seat back. I thought, as long as I can keep the sweaters dry, I can either throw them back over the kids T-shirts if they don't get too wet, or substitute them entirely if they get soaked.

My son, all five years old of him, rode in the very front of the log, between my legs, and didn’t care a whit about how wet he might get. He was having too much fun.

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We did get wet, but not terribly so. However, the ride was a bit more intense than I thought it would be, culminating with—what I will swear was to my dying day—a near vertical plunge into a splash pool.

After the ride was over, walking towards the exit, we passed by a bank of monitors displaying snapshots of each logs' passengers just at the precise moment they were about to take the final plunge.

To my amazement, I saw that, in that moment, I had unconsciously and instinctively wrapped my arm around my little boy, holding him for dear life. Just in case—well, I don't really know why—but just in case.

And that was the first time I realized I was a dad.

When did you first realize you were a dad? Tell me about it in the comment below.

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The average person can read 250 words per minute.

If you made it this far, you took a seven and a half minute break from an increasingly chaotic and unhinged world.

Come back here next week and we’ll do it again—or stay on break and check out The Best of ‘The Anecdote.’