I wasn’t around for Mr. Roy’s growing-up years. While I was practicing grand jetés in ballet class and reading “Little House on the Prairie” and playing Treasure Trolls with my best friend in the suburbs of Medina County, he was watching “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” and trying his hand at peewee football (it didn’t stick) and dabbling in WWE somewhere in Coshocton.
By the time we met at Kent State University, both of our interests had changed somewhat. While “Little House on the Prairie” will always be dear to my heart, I set it aside in favor of more modern and sophisticated literature. Mr. Roy, meanwhile, had taken up the guitar and relished his time listening to pop-punk music and covering Kent’s buzzing entertainment scene for the student newspaper.
Our early courtship chats didn’t focus on what gender of baby we hoped to have one day, but a couple years down the road, when we walked out of an ultrasound room and parenthood suddenly became our reality, I pictured myself as a boy mom: “snips and snails and puppy dog tails.”
I dreamt of myself taking them outside in the fresh air, letting them roll around in the mud; I would not grimace about their bugs and their smells and their rowdiness. I would love them with a fun and tough love and teach them how to be soft and strong.
Then, over the course of seven years, we gave birth to three girls.
I have this idea – I don’t know where it came from – that boys grow up dreaming that someday they will teach their sons to do all the things they themselves either excel at or can’t do very well: Be 6-feet-7-inches and become the star point guard on the basketball team; have dashingly good looks; excel at every sport there is; maybe hunt and fish in their spare time.
If girls picture themselves as moms who take their daughters on shopping trips and braid their hair and paint their nails and have pretend tea parties, then boys probably imagine themselves teaching their sons everything they need to know about the art of manliness. (This is all, of course, generalization.)
So what happens when those plans get overthrown?
I cannot stealthily ascertain whether Mr. Roy once pictured himself as a boy dad, but here is what I know: He has truly stepped into his calling as a girl dad, and on this Father’s Day, I need to use what space I have left to give a quick shout-out to every dad who has found himself in the same shoes.
To the dads who dreamt of cheering in the bleachers at football games, but instead found themselves at figure-skating competitions, gymnastics meets and dance recitals: You can still be all in. Buy the bouquet of congratulatory flowers. Be like Mr. Roy and make sure your hungry performer has lunch and dinner when there is a break in the action. Learn to braid hair. Cheer just as loudly (at appropriate times). Celebrate just as hard.
To the dads who pictured themselves running into Home Depot for lumber but instead find themselves, 45 minutes later, perusing the aisles of the American Girl store: Stay just as interested. Don’t worry if you feel out of place. Yes, of course she’s sweet-talking you. Don’t give in every time… but maybe sometimes.
To the dads who imagined themselves giving brusque pep talks and a firm clap on the back and instead are dealing with the fragility of teenage hormones, happy tears, sad tears, angry tears, mystery tears, fits of emotion, treading on the thin ice of multiple females’ big feelings under one roof: Keep listening. Be strong, but not too strong.
To the dads who saved their “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” action figures and “Star Wars” comic books and footballs but are drowning in a sea of pink and “Fancy Nancy” and Barbie: Get. The turtles. Out. Anyway. There’s nothing in (worthwhile) writing that says girls can’t watch “Star Wars” and play with Ninja Turtles or throw a football. So bring these pieces of yourself to your girls and create bonds where your two worlds meet.
Earlier this week, Mr. Roy watched a video about how to make a light saber (handle only) from bits and pieces from Home Depot. One evening, the Bigs and I stepped out for a couple hours, and when we got back – BAM. Light Saber.
Mr. Roy and Tiny had put it together themselves, and they were both proud; I was proud of them.
Of course no two dads are the same. No two kids are the same. Absolutely, some girls play football and some boys figure skate (we know a few) and some dads would rather go to a ballet than a football game. That’s great! I have written about our experience; you may substitute yours.
My point in writing this column is to acknowledge that fatherhood and parenthood do not always end up being what we dream in earlier years that it will be, and the best way to capitalize upon this discrepancy between dreams and reality is to make the most of it, whatever that looks like.
I am proud of Mr. Roy for doing just that, and I know countless other dads out there who are doing the same.
Happy Father’s Day to each and every one of them.
Abbey Roy is a mom of three girls who make every day an adventure. She writes to maintain her sanity. You can probably reach her at amroy@nncogannett.com, but responses are structured around bedtimes and weekends.
This article originally appeared on Newark Advocate: Finding joy in the unexpected life of a girl dad | Abbey’s Road
Reporting by Abbey Roy, Newark Advocate / Newark Advocate
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By Abbey Roy, Newark Advocate | USA TODAY Network
