‘You're there to dad.' Five fathers on how they learned to parent.

Washington Post

a day ago

The moment we brought our first child home from the hospital, I sat on the couch and put my feet up. Our new baby girl, our blinding light of joy, lay on my chest. We both slept like the popular stereotype of a baby.
I assume my wife did as well — at least I hope she did — though probably in a bed in the other room, experiencing her first moments of privacy in days. But I don't know for sure; like I said, baby and I only made it to the couch before we conked out.
My daughter slept like that countless times in her first few weeks and months. Sometimes, I did, too, but often I would be standing and swaying, or sitting up against a stack of pillows while she snoozed a few inches from my chin. When she started sleeping in her bassinet, I would need to first drape my arm over her while she drifted off, acting as a human swaddle. She needed me in different ways than she needed her mother, obviously. But she needed me. And that was a revelation.
The pop-culture cliché of fatherhood revolves around helping. Is dad helping enough? What does dad do to help? As soon as I became a father, I realized how wrong this is.
My arms became a place of comfort and rest for my daughter. Whenever the endless wonder and confusion of babyhood exhausted her, she would nuzzle her way up to my collarbone, where she would wirelessly recharge. Dad wasn't helping; dad was dadding. We were building a bond that we both needed more than I could possibly have understood before that first nap on the couch.
The bond between mother and child can make it intimidating to be the other parent, the one who didn't literally grow this human inside them and continues to sustain them. The shape that a father-baby bond is meant to take isn't as obvious. But that's not because fatherhood is an afterthought; it's just a different kind of miracle.
New fathers should approach their new lives not just with love but with intent. Embrace the bigness of it all. Don't think of your role as ancillary or merely utilitarian. You're not there to help; you're there to dad.
Seth Mandel, Silver Spring
The writer is senior editor of Commentary magazine.
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Take as much time as you can
As a new dad to my son Hodge, who's now almost 3, the biggest lesson I learned, and my biggest advice to any new father, is this: Take as much time as you can to be with your child. The more time you put in, the more you get back.
Before I became a dad, I thought my legacy would be the jobs I held or the legislation I passed. But after becoming a father, I realized that my legacy is my son. The values I pass down, the purpose I help instill in him, it all starts in those early days.
When you take paid family leave, you're not just getting time off. You're bonding, learning, growing and becoming the kind of parent your child needs. It's not just good for the baby and your partner. Sharing the workload helps reduce stress, lowers the risk of postpartum depression and strengthens the entire family.
I know those first few weeks can be intense. Newborns are a 24/7 job: They need to eat every two hours, be changed constantly and held often. There's no 'off' switch, so the more help your partner has, the better it is for everyone in your family.
Strong families don't just happen. Policymakers like me and my colleagues need to create the space to support them by passing strong parental leave policies. And, as dads, we need to take that time when it's available to us. It only comes around once, and it's the most important work we'll ever do.
Jimmy Gomez, Los Angeles
The writer, a Democrat, represents California's 34th Congressional District in the U.S. House and is chair of the Congressional Dads Caucus.
Be Samwise Gamgee
For many men in white-collar professions, modernity offers relatively few opportunities in which traditionally masculine traits are strictly necessary. You don't need to be able to bench press much to finish up those spreadsheets, and physical strength tends to be more of an asset on the flag-football field than in locking down that promotion.
One critical exception for many dads, though, is these hours and days leading up to and right after birth. Just because men will never be able to experience the pangs of childbirth doesn't mean they aren't called to play the role of Samwise Gamgee in their partner's journey.
In the climactic moments of 'The Lord of the Rings,' Frodo despairs of being able to finish his mission to take the ring of power to the mountain in which it will be destroyed. Sam, his faithful companion, is there: 'I can't carry the ring for you, but I can carry you!'
For different dads, 'carrying' the mother of their child will take different forms: massaging her aching hips and back as contractions start; physically supporting her as her body spasms in the throes of labor; making late-night runs to the convenience store to pick up much-needed pads (or ice cream); endlessly pacing a room to get a tired baby down; or waking up at 12 a.m., and 2 a.m., and 4 a.m., to handle feeding so mom can get some rest.
To be clear, these tasks pale in comparison to the physical pain and emotional exhaustion of childbirth that women undertake; the burden of bearing the next generation will always be fundamentally uneven.
But whatever fatherhood looks like, it's an invitation to put your strength, your sleep, your whole self on the line, even when it means forgoing creature comforts or pushing muscles in ways no workout could ever match. Like a journey to the heart of Middle-earth, it's exhausting, unglamorous, and — when that small little bundle lets out a sigh and burrows into your chest — transformative.
Patrick T. Brown, Columbia, South Carolina
(Illustration by Michelle Kondrich/The Washington Post)
Have faith in what you have to offer
'You can just do things,' declares a popular meme. My personal variation on this is 'You can just give good things to your children.'
Good things can be simple and small: a song, for instance. On one of our first nights with our first child, while we were all still at the hospital, I spent a long time walking back and forth in the dark, holding our fussy baby close to me and trying to soothe her back to sleep. There, amid the beeping hospital monitors, inspiration struck.
After my 99th rendition of 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,' I changed up the lyrics. 'Twinkle, Twinkle Beatrice,' I sang, riffing on our daughter's name. 'You are such a precious gift,/ Like a diamond or a pearl,/ You are our sweet little girl,/ Twinkle, twinkle Beatrice,/ You are such a precious gift.' This little rewrite has remained in our repertoire for calming Beatrice ever since.
And good things don't have to be instrumental or aimed at optimizing your child. This isn't about playing Mozart to raise your baby's IQ or SAT scores. Do it for the joy of sharing what is beautiful with a new person you love.
Give what is good, starting with the gift of your presence. I know it can be challenging. But the most important place for your attention right now, in the first hours and days and weeks of dadhood, is right there: with your family, especially its brand-new, needy, wonderful addition. Know that you have good things to give, and give them.
Alexi Sargeant, Hyattsville
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Get your reps in
My husband and I became dads last summer. I wanted to be a parent for a long time. It took me until I was 40 for that to happen, and yet, despite the long runway, I approached the due date with exceptional trepidation about the unknowns of fatherhood. Then, suddenly, the baby was here, forcing us to learn a lot — and quickly.
People told me I would miss the newborn stage. I confess that as our child approaches his first birthday, there is no part of me that wishes to return to that time, back when he was a vomiting potato that didn't know who we were or, perhaps, that he was even sentient.
Still, there was something almost sacred about the ritual of the 2 a.m. feedings. The darkness. The coziness. The feeling that we were the only two people in the world. His shallow, innocent breaths as I swapped out his tiny diaper. The little gremlin sounds he made as he devoured two ounces of formula, something I've never dared to taste myself — though I am curious.
Before he came along, I told friends I was worried I was going to be bad at this. But then one night during that first week, I sat him on a table for a groggy diaper change and it occurred to me just then how natural all these tasks had become. Repetition by repetition, I'd become a dad.
Eli McCann, Salt Lake City