Daddy ... or Caddy?

Perhaps I'm thinking about this because the Masters golf tournament was recently on television, but as I sat on the couch with Megan watching a few holes before driving Jillian's brother to the airport, I caught myself watching the interaction between golfers and their caddies, and I couldn't help but chuckle at the parallels between that relationship and the one I have with my daughter.

(Please pardon the extended sports metaphor ... but taking that away from me would be like People magazine publishing without a Britney Spears story or asking Paula Dean to cook without butter. It can be done, but it would be damn near impossible.)

Anyway, in golf, the primary purpose of the caddy is to schlep the detritus of the pampered golfer. I think this parallel is fairly obvious. The staff bags of a golfer weigh approximately 60-75 pounds and besides clubs are crammed full of extra gloves, shirts, sweaters, balls, tees, drinks, snacks, umbrella, etc.

When Jillian and I leave the house, I sometimes feel like a rented pack mule as we trudge out the door. With Megan and car seat in one hand, diaper bag in the other, and various sized blankets and burp cloths, I feel like this is my unvolunteered for role.

But a caddy provides more than just a shoulder. He is also responsible for giving a wide range of advice to the golfer. He is asked to know yardages, wind speed/direction, breaks of the green, and is forced to communicate all of that based on the emotional proclivities of the player.

In my seven weeks of fatherhood I've gotten a pass on this area of expertise because Megan is smart enough to pretend not to hear me. She barely makes eye contact with me; she's shifty that little one. But eventually she will listen, and this skill is perhaps the one I revel in the most. Now, I realize this is a 'be-careful-what-you-wish-for' situation, but I can't wait until I can really communicate with Megan. I talk. That's my thing. Not poor me. Poor Megan. I don't think she's ready for the questioning that will hit her later in adolescence from me. But I'm digressing (see I can ramble even in print). I feel like my father role is to know everything about everything, be able to fix everything, or at the very least know how to fake it, and to be able to read her mood and know when to encourage, when to guide, when to admonish, and when to just shut up and let her put her head on my shoulder.

Finally, the last thing I noticed is that a good caddy provides a safe place when everything else around the player is unraveling. If he birdies a hole, the caddy is there for the awkward high-five. If he double bogeys the hole, the caddy throws an arm around him and tells him to forget it and re-focus on the next hole in front of them. Despite the cheers and jeers from the crowd, the player knows they have their safety net right next to them as they walk out in the open, unguarded through the round.

And while I saw this somewhat on the television, I was in awe to have ten days to see it in real life. I hope to be the father that Carey is to Jillian (Sue is super great too, but I can only offer male perspective on this subject). Jill's nearly, ahem, well, I won't say her age, but despite being on her own and my wife for the past 8 years, he is still her father, and watching their dynamic gives me chills of hope that my daughter respects and admires me like she does Carey, no matter what her age. That sentence was crazy to type, and I'm not sure how you will read it, but as her husband I promise you, there's no jealousy at all. I wouldn't be telling this story if there was. I see her go to him for advice on major decisions, I see his protectiveness in the odd projects he helped get done off our ever-growing to-do list, and I see his love in his soft, calm voice when he soothes my daughter by learning that she likes her temples massaged and the underside of her feet rubbed. I am just in the beginning of my apprenticeship of learning what it truly takes to be a great father, but I'm excited to know that I have an excellent case study in front of me to learn from.

So in a 'public, but personal' note to my Megan: The one thing I can promise over the decades of your life is that I will screw up. I'm me, fallible, human. There's just no getting around that. But my goal is to deflect as much pain from your heart as possible, funnel as much joy into your soul as allows, and provide you the safety of my arms from which to venture out and seek the experiences of life for as long as I live.