Oct 11
On fatherhood…
One thing that you will not see me writing about here is the reason why Caspar is “fatherless”. This is not because I have any qualms about airing my laundry. You’ve probably noticed already that self-censorship is not one of my strong points. The reason I won’t discuss the details is out of respect for the privacy of others. Well, one other.
A while ago now I wrote about a scene I witnessed at the park; a father picking up his kids and the mother walking away alone. I do not have to go through that. While being a single parent and having a fatherless child would not have been my first choice, I was able to accept the way things were when I found out I was pregnant and when my expectations were confirmed. I was not overwhelmed by a sense of rejection and I did not feel daunted by the prospect of parenting alone. I never considered not doing it, regardless of the circumstances, and my anticipation of Caspar’s birth was an unadulterated joy.
I know many women in more ideal situations (on the surface, at least) are not as lucky as I was in that respect. Possibly, I was just another example of a fool rushing in where angels fear to tread. I am often an example of that. In fact, you could carve it on my headstone. But I digress…
I believe (and read that as, I think, considering all the knowledge I currently have at hand which is subject to change, and very aware that I am generalising) that the nature of fatherhood is fundamentally different from motherhood. Not qualitatively different, but different nonetheless.
Motherhood is physical from the outset. There is physical relationship with your child before they are even born, for better or worse. For a father, things are not so concrete. For a father, the path toward parenthood begins theoretically. I have known men who were highly involved in the pregnancy, who were fascinated by every change, who attended every appointment. I have also known men who were completely disconnected from the process, focussing solely on the logistics (dealing with the physical world), until they physically held their child in their arms. I have even known men who did not feel really attached until their child was older and capable of more sophisticated interactions with them. All of these types of men have an equal capacity to be great fathers. It’s just that fatherhood can sometimes be a slow burn.
There is some science to back this up. A man’s hormonal responses* - his production of prolactin and cortisol which assist with bonding - are dependent to a certain extent on proximity, both during the pregnancy and once his child is born. With work often taking men away from home for long periods of time, it is not surprising that, for some, the connection comes more slowly.
Motherhood is an amazingly powerful thing. It is immediate, it is a fait accompli. It has physical presence and if by some awful twist of fate there is a disconnection, a woman has a long, hard road to travel. Society does not allow a woman time for her motherhood to be a journey. But for men… There is something so very beautiful in watching a man evolve into a father, seeing him mentally shift from his theoretical role as protector and provider and start taking pleasure in the scent of his child’s hair. There is something beautiful in watching a man fall in love.
Fatherhood is also an amazingly powerful thing.
When Caspar arrived, I really wanted his father to meet him, newborn, and breathe in his scent. I did not want this in order to change the way things were (biology has its limitations) but there would have been something symbolic in that physical act of holding him, even for just that one moment, before returning him to me. I would have liked to have been able to tell Caspar that his father fell in love with him and entrusted him to my care.
His father lives with Caspar’s existence only theoretically and I ache for him. I think that the idea of your child is perhaps a harder burden to bear than the reality of him when you cannot be there, or have chosen not to be there. Especially for a man. Without having experienced that physical presence, Caspar’s father has nothing to hold on to. He is left only with his theoretical role as protector and provider, a role he will never play. Knowing him, I imagine this is difficult. I imagine that he sometimes feels torn between his choices and his sense of moral obligation. I imagine that he will have a long, hard road to travel in order to resolve this conflict within himself. I imagine that one day, when he evolves from a man into a father, he will feel that connection for the first time and there will be a sense of loss alongside his joy.
Perhaps if he had held his son, he would have had something concrete to sustain him. There would have been action on his part; entrusting him to me would have been a physical act. Symbolism and psychology and physiology are not so very separate. I would have liked him to have the memory of Caspar’s newborn scent to carry with him on that road.
October 11th, 2007 at 1:45 am
[…] Mom has an incredibly personal and touching post on what distinguishes fatherhood from motherhood from her experiences as a single […]
October 11th, 2007 at 9:39 am
Gulp.
October 11th, 2007 at 11:27 am
Hmmm, you raise interesting points. I think there is much in what you say about fatherly bonding requiring proximity. I was a little girl during the Second World War, when many fathers missed their children’s early years, some not even meeting their infants until they came home (the ones who did). I know that in many cases this lack of early contact meant that the bonding didn’t happen and children grew up feeling estranged from fathers who were physically present. I was luckier in that my Dad had a crippled leg and therefore was sent to a camp somewhere in Central Australia, where blokes not fit to go to war were trained as some kind of home army in case we were ever invaded. So he was not entirely a stranger afterwards, as he did get home for brief visits. (I do recall, though, being terrified on these occasions at his male voice in the house, which seemed so loud compared with the women’s voices I was used to. I had to be reassured all over again each time.) I was lucky too in that he was a man who adored kids and was born to be a father, so it was easy to fall in love with him when I had more chance to get to know him. Men of different temperament were often less able to overcome that early deprivation to both parties, an ongoing sorrow to all concerned.
Maybe Caspar’s father is being self-protective. Perhaps he thought that holding his newborn son once, and then handing him over to your care, might cause him pain rather than sustenance over the ensuing years.
I hope you won’t continue to agonise over the effects on him of the choice he made. It is, as you know, his loss, but there is nothing you can do about that. It is clear you still have caring and respect for him; know also that he will meet whatever comes as best he can - it’s his journey - leaving you free to continue focusing on your evident joy in your wonderful child. Caspar’s personality already shines through your posts!
October 11th, 2007 at 1:22 pm
What a strong, sensible and thought provoking post you write.
Caspar’s Dad has his own journey. When, and if he is ready, he may choose to meet the wonderful young man that you have raised. If he does not, the loss belongs to him to grieve - not you to grieve for him.
My very best wishes fly across the states to you and Casper.
October 12th, 2007 at 1:43 am
Wow.
I didn’t feel as though I had communicated my thoughts so well, but it seems that what I was trying to say came through in spite of the limitations of my words.
Bossy - Welcome. I think that “gulp” is a good thing?!?
Rosemary, what an amazingly sensitive response. I loved reading about your past. It made me think of George Johnston’s book, My Brother Jack. It is a time, an important time, I will only ever know through reading so it is wonderful to hear what it was like from someone who lived it.
Megan and Rosemary - Thank you both so very much. Both of your comments about Caspar’s Dad were so right and it is strengthening to feel understood. I cannot help him on his journey and that is sometimes a hard reality to know.
October 12th, 2007 at 12:28 pm
Glad it resonated!
I should probably have explained that I was born in November 1939, “Just as the War started,” my Mum used to say, and therefore was not quite 6 when it ended. In other words it exactly coincided with the years of my infancy. Older children no doubt had their own problems, missing fathers who were not strangers! Who can say which is worse? We play the hands we’re dealt.