It might not be what Mom would do, but you, Dad, can still get the job done . . . and done well.
Back in the day when there wasn’t such a thing as Pampers but only the cloth variety of diapers, I was home alone with our firstborn, Holly, who was eighteen months old, and Krissy, our second born, an infant. Well, that day, Holly had the worst big-ba since Franco American spaghetti was created. Truly. It was unbelievable. I didn’t have a clue what to do. It was literally running down her legs onto the kitchen floor.
I didn’t have time to put on my “What Would Mommy Do?” bracelet. This was survival.
So what did this dad do? I grabbed Holly, yanked the screen door of the kitchen open, and bolted into the backyard. At that point, I really didn’t care what the neighbors thought. I was on a targeted mission. That day the garden hose saved my life . . . and the kitchen from an even more aromatic disaster.
The best part is, I got away with it . . . for three days. Then little bigmouth Holly started talking to her mother about the “special shower”—that’s what she called it—Daddy gave her.
My wife lifted an imperious eyebrow. “What special shower?” she asked.
“In the backyard with the hose,” Holly announced. “And it was cold.”
Mrs. Uppington gave me “the Look,” followed with, “Leemie, what did you do?”
“Hey,” I defended myself, “I didn’t know what to do. It was an unbelievable mess.” At her further icy stare, I added, “And I swabbed the kitchen floor, too, so don’t give me the Look.”
We dads may not do the job the way moms would, but we get the job done.
Even if it means we have to do things our way, with the garden hose.
Gender Differences 101
Clearly, daddies do things differently than mommies.
I’ve never had the compulsion to ask a waiter, “Excuse me, what does that man have on his plate over there?” then follow it with, “Oooh, it looks good. I’d like to try that.”
I also have no interest in getting my hair done once a week, like my beloved wife, or even once a month. I just put my baseball hat on. It goes nicely with the same T-shirt I had on yesterday and the same shorts I wore yesterday. They all have that “broken in” feel to them.
Clearly, daddies do things differently than mommies.
We dads use a lot fewer words than moms. In fact, we’re known for our grunts, which can carry an entire conversation in their tone.
And we do stupid things, even at ages where we should know better. My wife says that my lifelong best buddy, Moonhead, and I act like two otters playing in the stream whenever we see each other. We’ll go into a restaurant and say, “Well, what are you going to have, fat boy?”
“What are you going to have, larger than most?”
We’ve also been known to wrestle each other in public. And we’re in our sixties. Not much has changed since we were young boys in Upstate New York, other than the fact that we now have wives who roll their eyes at our antics.
At a young age, males and females are different.
Young girls of ages three, four, and five are already using “we” talk—very inclusive and relationally oriented. Young boys of the same age use “I” or “me” talk—very exclusive.
Girls walk hand in hand out of a gymnasium. They give a little skip and hop, laugh, talk, and share. The boys? They’re in single file. They’ve got that lope kind of gait, and they’re lookin’ cool. They even walk a little slower the world over.
Girls talk and negotiate with each other, participating in groupthink. For boys, competition and doing it solo is in their very nature. They’re constantly trying to outdo each other at anything . . . and everything.
Watch boys and girls play sometime if you want a chuckle.
What Boys Do: Wrestle and flex their muscles.
What Girls Do: Hold hands and share.
The other day I was at a mall in Tucson, Arizona, with my wife. I try my best to avoid such places, but sometimes, being the good husband that I am, I get cajoled into going so I can “share” the experience with my wife. Since my wife had some major shopping on the brain, I told her I’d meet her back in the food court. Right next to the food is this wonderful little playground. So I sat and watched the kids for entertainment.
Two little girls were playing nicely together, negotiating what they were going to do next, discussing the possibilities.
Then I looked at the two boys. One had a balloon and was beating his friend over the head with it as fast and hard as he could.
Is one better than the other?
No, they’re simply different.
I’m in the counseling profession. Last week I stood before an audience of three thousand people and asked them, “How many of you women would like to go to counseling this week?”
There was a sea of hands.
“Oh, Dr. Leman, I’d love to go,” one woman called.
“Yeah,” called another. “I’d even get a new outfit and get my hair done for the occasion.”
Then I asked the men in the audience. No hands.
Frankly, there’s not a man who’s sane who would put his hand up.
The male thinking goes like this (if you’re a female reading this book, say it out loud with the tone of Rocky Balboa, the fighter from the Rocky movies, and you’ll have the most vivid picture): Why would I tell a stranger what’s going on in my life? Especially a shrink kind of guy. There’s no way I’m telling anybody anything. And I’m certainly not paying somebody big money to hear my problems. I’ll deal with my problems myself.
We men are driven to compete, not to show weakness by airing our dirty laundry in public.
We men are driven to compete, not to show weakness by airing our dirty laundry in public.
We men also work hard at handling one thing at a time. Women are multitaskers and, frankly, a little intimidating to us men.
Especially when we aren’t always as observant as we most likely should be.
Case in point: about six months ago, Mrs. Uppington gave me a new toothbrush. An Oral-B toothbrush. It seemed to be sort of fat and heavy for a toothbrush, but I didn’t really think much about it. I simply threw out the old one and stashed the new one in my travel bag.
After taking a flight back after a speaking engagement, I headed to the parking lot at the airport, found my car, and started it up. As I drove toward home, I kept hearing a noise.
I thought something was wrong with the car. I even pulled off the side of the road and turned off the car so I could listen. The noise continued. Opening the hood, I peered around to see if some part was still engaged. But everything looked normal.
I slammed the hood down and proceeded to drive home. I had to stop at Krissy’s house to drop something off.
My grandson, Conner, was nine years old at the time. I pulled into Krissy’s driveway and turned off the car.
Conner came running. “Hi, Grampy!”
“Conner,” I said, “can you help Grampy?”
“Sure, Grampy,” he answered, all smiles and always ready to solve a problem. “What do you want?”
“Come on over here and listen to my car. Can you hear that noise?”
“Sure, Grampy.”
“Where is it coming from?”
Conner cocked his head and then pointed. “It’s in your suitcase.”
My suitcase was stashed on the passenger front seat of the convertible. I opened it up and looked inside. My toiletry bag was vibrating. I unzipped it, and inside was my toothbrush, buzzing against my aftershave bottle like a mini-jackhammer pounding away.
As God is my judge, I noticed for the first time—I’d been brushing my teeth with the thing for at least ninety days—that there were two little buttons on the toothbrush. I laughed so hard at myself.
We men might not notice the little things.
We may never be able to find things in the fridge that women can.
The other day I asked Sande, “Honey, where’s the mustard?”
“It’s on the right side, on the second shelf,” she called.
I looked again. “I’m telling you, it’s not here,” I called back.
Sande sashayed into the kitchen with that “Look” on her face. The one that says, kindly of course, I think I married an idiot.
With a grand flourish, she reached past me, to the right side, on the second shelf, moved one item, and sure enough, there was the mustard.
Okay, so sometimes I am an idiot, without sonar.
But I care deeply about my family.
I’m not my wife. I can’t always find the mustard. I don’t wear a skirt. I don’t have the legs for it.
I’m all male.
And that’s okay by me.
How Men Juggle Apples
One at a time
What We Men Are Really Good At
When one of my daughters was fourteen, I took her on a flight to New York City with me. I was booked to do a national TV show, and I wanted her to see behind the scenes of what I did for a living. We had a great time together. Then, when I had to tape another show, I arranged to have the car drive us by Bloomingdale’s on the way and drop her off, since she loved to shop. I told her I’d meet her back in the restaurant at Bloomingdale’s at a certain time.
At the appointed time, I asked the car to drop me off at Bloomingdale’s and wait for me while I ran in to the restaurant to pick up my daughter.
She wasn’t there. A few minutes went by, and I got nervous. My daughter was always responsible and punctual. A half hour later she wasn’t there, and I started freaking out. I hoofed it to the office to put out an all-points bulletin on my daughter . . . and found out there were five different restaurants in Bloomingdale’s.
Houston, we have a problem, I thought. So I did what all men do in a crisis. I called my wife back in Tucson, Arizona.
I did what all men do in a crisis. I called my wife.
“Hi, honey, are you guys having a good time?” she said excitedly.
“Yeah . . .”
My wife’s a smart cookie. She knew right away by my tone something was up. “Leemie, what have you done?”
“Actually, honey, I can’t find her.”
There was a pause, then, “What did you say?”
“Now don’t get upset,” I began.
“I’m not upset,” my wife said in a frosty tone. “But tell me what I think I heard you say.”
“I’m sure I’ll find her,” I explained. “There aren’t that many people in New York City.”
Let’s just say my attempt at humor fell flat, and my normally calm wife went ballistic on the phone. For my part, I was more frantic than she was. I thought my daughter had been abducted.
The general manager’s office paged her and . . . nothing.
Another page . . . same thing.
Long story short, my daughter was waiting in the restaurant for me. When I didn’t show up, she began to look for me, while I looked for her. She, too, found out about the multiple restaurants, so she started walking to each different one. We were like two ships passing in the night. (And that, parents, is why your daughter having a cell phone when she’s away from you is so important. My daughter didn’t have one at that point.)
Finally we reunited two hours later, but in the meantime, the car driver got tired of waiting for me and took off with my luggage in the car. I didn’t have his phone number; he didn’t have mine. Needless to say, we missed our plane. It was a real mess.
Now, if it had been Mrs. Uppington with our daughter in New York City at Bloomingdale’s, she would have gotten out of that car, walked our daughter into the store, stood in the restaurant, and stated, “See this X right here? I’ll meet you right here at this exact spot at 4:00 p.m.”
Me? I merely said, “I’ll meet you in the restaurant, honey. You have a good time.”
You see why we men need you women?
So men aren’t always good at the details or with specifics, but we are good at many things. Sadly, today’s society doesn’t seem to have much use for men. In fact, if you watch sitcoms, which bash men with great regularity, you get the distinct impression that men aren’t needed for anything. But if you don’t think men are needed in the family, take a look again at the stats I shared in chapter 1 about what happens when dads are emotionally or physically AWOL. Every bit of research shows that your daughter will do better in life because you’re there. We men don’t do things the same way, but male role models are needed to balance that wonderful female creature called a woman.
We Are, at Our Core, Difference Makers
The reality is that the huge majority of us dads want to make a difference in our kids’ lives. We want to be of service to other people. We want to be great dads and husbands. But we don’t always have the tools we need to do that.
Rest assured, Dad, that you are the biggest difference maker in your daughter’s life. The attention you give her, the affirmation you shower upon her, the approval you provide her—all gets internalized by your daughter to the point where she adopts the internal perspective: I am somebody. I’m a (your last name). I’m a worthwhile human being. I don’t have to take ill treatment from anyone. And I won’t.
We Are Problem Solvers
To see men shine, give us a problem and we’ll go after it until it’s solved. We’re relentless. We want to provide answers, be the family “go-to” guy. Solving problems helps fulfill our three greatest needs—to be wanted, respected, and fulfilled—as a part of the family.
For example, my lovely wife is a sleeper. She truly has raccoonlike qualities. The woman can sleep anytime—even on a bench at a ball game (yes, it used to be embarrassing, but by now my best buddy, Moonhead, is used to it). She stays up very late and then sleeps until late in the morning. Her idea of getting an early start is two o’clock in the afternoon. Some of our daughters inherited those qualities from their mother. Me? I’m up at the crack of dawn and have completed half my day before she’s even up.
To see men shine, give us a problem.
When our kids were little, Mrs. Uppington definitely needed to sleep. But our kids could be up at the crack of dawn, and keeping little ones quiet was a task that even Superman couldn’t accomplish. So I solved the problem for her every Saturday, even without her asking. I’d load Holly and Krissy in the car—still barefoot in their Pooh Bear nighties—and take them to Dunkin’ Donuts. They loved to sit on the swivel stools. They’d twirl and twirl while they ate their doughnuts and drank their milk. We’d spend a couple hours every Saturday morning away from the house so Mrs. Raccoon could sleep.
Looking back now, I realize that Mrs. Uppington would have been aghast at the thought of her kids out in public without shoes on (all those germs on the floor, you know) and still in their jammies (socially unacceptable). But it didn’t bother them, and it didn’t bother me. In fact, we probably gave a few Dunkin’ Donuts visitors some chuckles. And when we went home, Sande was ready with recharged energy and smiles for all of us. Problem solved! It worked for all of us. What Sande didn’t know didn’t hurt her either.
As soon as Sande got pregnant with Holly, our oldest, she had made a firm decision that she was going to stay home and rear our kids. When all the kids were older, though, and in school, Sande went on to launch her own retail store, the Shabby Hattie Antique Shop, and enjoyed the benefits and satisfaction of owning a business. No more was I taking little kids to Dunkin’ Donuts on Saturday. Instead, I cooked dinner on the nights she worked late at the shop.
Now, my dinners didn’t look anything like hers. In fact, they were rather long, spaced-out affairs, with one food item served at a time.
“Hey, kids,” I’d call, “the corn is ready.”
Twenty minutes later, I’d say, “Pork chops are ready,” and there was another race to the table.
I didn’t worry about the four food groups or that every color was represented on the table. I didn’t even set the table with the fork on the left side and the knife and spoon on the right. But I fed our family’s bellies. I got the job done, the problem solved.
Dad, when you walk in your wife’s shoes, you discover some realities you might otherwise miss. Children have no timetables. Their needs are often immediate. They have patience as thin as waxed paper. And being around young kids all day will tax your patience, too, as much as you love them.
Your wife isn’t the only one who needs your help in solving problems. Your daughter does too. She needs you to anticipate her needs before she has them—and before they become the size of Mount Vesuvius. She needs you to help her look at situations logically and from multiple angles, rather than from the one lens she may be looking through, colored with emotions. But she doesn’t need you to handle every situation for her. Every child needs to learn how to solve her own problems. However, in order for daughters to do that with confidence, they need a dad’s listening ear as they process.
We Are Calculated Risk Takers
Contrast the way moms and dads treat their kids when teaching them how to swim.
Take Mom first. She’s most likely to let her young child float in an inner tube in a calm, serene way, pushing the child inch by inch away from the side of the pool. In fact, if Mom could find a way to teach her daughter to swim without getting wet, she would.
Now, listen for the screams. Chances are, you’ll find a daddy behind them. All of a sudden that daughter has become a projectile missile, thrown out of her daddy’s arms, up into the air, and into the water with a dramatic sploosh, then caught up again. And the next daughter is already shouting, “Now do it to me, Daddy! I’m next!”
How does Mom respond? She says in a panic, “Uh, dear, do you think that’s safe? They really don’t know how to swim!”
“Don’t worry, honey. Kids at this age are really flexible. Throwing them in the water is the best way for them to learn how to swim.”
So Mama Duck sits on the side and clucks away in worry, while Papa Duck gets those ducklings paddling in the water.
So Mama Duck sits on the side and clucks away in worry, while Papa Duck gets those ducklings paddling in the water.
Dad, the way you play with your kids and encourage them to take on life is usually completely different from the way your wife does. You bring certain testosterone-laden qualities and characteristics to your relationship with your kids that are necessary for your daughter to achieve a balanced perspective about life.
So go on taking those calculated risks that might make your wife squeamish at times, like having your child jump from her two-story playhouse into your arms. It will build in your daughter not only the ability to take risks, but a trust in you that will last for a lifetime.
We Are Defenders, Protectors
On September 11, 2001, I stared at the television, watching the brave firemen as they ran into burning, disintegrating buildings to rescue the survivors of the most vicious attack on domestic soil that America has ever experienced. Choking back tears, I said to Sande, “Look at those guys. Now those are real men.”
Real men are difference makers who want to help those in crisis. They are the defenders, the protectors of the family and those who are less fortunate.
One summer our nine-year-old daughter, Hannah, needed to fly from our summer home in New York State to Tucson, Arizona, where we spend the school year. I didn’t want her to fly alone, so I accompanied her. I reserved a round-trip ticket that had me flying back to Buffalo forty-five minutes after Hannah and I arrived in Tucson, and I dropped her off at her friend’s house so they could enjoy time together before school started.
When the flight attendant found out what I was doing—spending an entire day flying from Buffalo to Tucson and then immediately back to Buffalo, solely to chaperone my daughter, she couldn’t believe it. “For fifty bucks, you could have saved yourself a whole lot of trouble. Why don’t you just put her on the plane? We chaperone kids much younger than her all the time. Don’t you trust us? We do a good job.”
I looked that flight attendant right in the eye and said, “It’s not your job. It’s mine.”
Her jaw dropped. She literally didn’t know what to say. Before the flight was over, several attendants had gathered around to talk to the crazy man who insisted on flying with his daughter.
Today not only do men have to be the physical protectors of our daughters, we also need to be the emotional protectors. Here’s what I mean.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve witnessed this type of scene over the years:
A young woman walks into the room, where a group of women are standing.
“Oh, your necklace is adorable,” one tells her.
“And your hairdo . . . I love it. It’s perfect for the summer,” another says.
“Where did you get that outfit, and those shoes? I have to know,” the third one adds.
As soon as the young woman walks out of the room, the group of women closes back in and starts throwing barbs at her:
“Can you believe that hideous outfit?”
“And those shoes—where on earth did she find those?”
“Her haircut looks like somebody put a bowl around her head . . .”
Females can be vicious in their rhetoric with each other. That’s why, Dad, you’re in a very good position to explain to your daughter why she should be careful what she says in person.
But what your daughter puts in print is also critically important. She might think the Internet, instant messaging, and texting are only between her and her girlfriend, but as soon as her girlfriend hits the forward button, only God himself knows where the information might end up, including in the computer of the one person in this world she’d hate to have that e-mail.
When my mom dragged me to Sunday school, we sang a children’s song that includes the lyrics, “O be careful little eyes what you see . . . O be careful little ears what you hear.”1 As archaic as those words sound, they’re great advice for all young people today. If you don’t share that with her, who will? Or will you let her learn that lesson the hard way?
My Knight on the Roller-Skating Rink
My dad’s pretty even tempered, and he’s always been very involved in my life. When I was thirteen, he took me and a group of my friends to a roller-skating rink. A guy there who wasn’t part of our group kept skating around me, knocking me down. The second time it happened, my dad stepped into the rink and was by my side to help me up. He steered me to the side of the rink, then headed for the guy who knocked me down, grabbed his arm, and got right in his face. To this day I have no idea what my dad said, and he never would tell me, but that guy looked a little pasty white and hurriedly left the rink. I didn’t see him the rest of the night.
Later, my dad told me, “I couldn’t stand how that guy was treating you. I didn’t want you to get hurt.”
My dad had always watched out for me, but that night I realized, perhaps for the first time, what a protector he was—not only of me, but of my mom too. I knew I’d always be safe with my daddy.
To this day, even though I’m thirty-two, married, and have two kids of my own, I still feel that way around him and around my husband, who is a lot like my dad.
—Kendra, North Carolina
When people come to our home, my wife serves us all an incredible dinner. I’m talking incredible. She spends days thinking about the perfect menu, gathering the ingredients, and making sure the setting is beautiful. I think it’s nuts, and it’s one of the reasons I affectionately call her Mrs. Uppington.
However, I’ve realized over all our years of marriage that, if doing so is important to her, it had better be important to me. Yesterday we had a couple here—people I know but whom Sande had never met. I told her a few days before that the couple was coming for a nice, comfy, little informal lunch, and that they were going to bring an ice chest of food so they could go out in the boat and go fishing. What did Mrs. Uppington do? She planned an elaborate menu with enough classy food to feed the entire block, including these appetizer thingies in individual crystal cups and homemade strawberry ice cream pie. She also set the table with clear water glasses that have to be, as God is my judge, fourteen inches high. They reek of formality. They look like they’re custom built for giraffes. I had to laugh. To my beloved bride, that was an informal lunch.
But the female visitor loved it all. She raved about the presentation.
I couldn’t help myself. I said to the group, “Well, how do you like the tall water glasses?”
“I love them,” the female visitor gushed.
I chuckled. “That’s great. They’re just not my favorites.”
But my wife had the last laugh. “Honey, look at your water glass.”
I did. She’d placed a very small water glass by my plate. It was the only one like it on the table. Everybody else had the tall giraffe glasses.
Gentlemen, let your lady be a lady. The “fussiness” you see about details is what makes her who she is . . . and is part of the mystique that made you fall in love with her in the first place.
So go ahead and be a man. Burp . . . but not in a female’s presence. Do your nails at the red light with your teeth.
Just expect that, in the midst of your manliness, you’ll have a few tall giraffe glasses from the females in your life.
A Good Dad’s Quick Reference Guide
• Your girl isn’t a boy.
• Your job: serve, protect, defend, take calculated risks, and problem-solve.