pokes: Uncle Dad

Uncle Dad

On Saturday, Pam and I grabbed a quick lunch at Panera Bread, beating the crowd by a good half hour. As I ate my excellent baked potato soup (Panera has some of the best soups in town), I noticed a thirtyish man, short and balding and with lively eyes, eating lunch with a boy I figured to be about a fourth-grader. His son, I safely assumed. They were having a good time, talking easily. The father leaned down and forward somewhat as he talked, as if trying to get on his son's level.

What was their story?

Were they out searching for a Christmas present for Mom? For siblings? Was this just something they did regularly, going out to eat together, like I've heard that other parents do? Or was it a divorced father spending his weekend, or every-other-weekend, time with his boy? I didn't think it was the latter. I'd seen other parent-child combos in restaurants who I guessed were in the broken-home box. Together, but distant. Talking, but not easily, not naturally, not like it's something they do daily. Sitting in uncomfortable silence with occasional breaks for words, focusing unduly on their meal as an excuse to avoid awkward conversation.

Back in the 1980s, I read an article with one of my all-time favorite titles, "Uncle Dad." A divorced father told about going to the airport once a month to pick up his daughter, who was flying in from a distant city where she lived with her mother and stepdad. The writer told about the awkwardness of those court-appointed meetings, how his daughter didn't always like being there--torn away for the weekend from friends and other activities--and how they often found little to talk about or do together. They endured those weekends as much as anything. He always hoped they would go well, but they never did.

Then one time his daughter came to stay for two weeks, and during that period, there were some breakthroughs. Just sitting around the house, watching TV or reading or doing nothing in particular, the daughter would suddenly make a remark which revealed something of her soul--a problem she was struggling with, an issue at school, hopes and dreams for the future, a question or comment that showed that she did, indeed, like her father. The writer said many Uncle Dads fool themselves by saying that though they don't have a large quantity of time together, they do have "quality" time. But, he said, "quality" time is a byproduct of "quantity" time, of being around each other for an extended period of time. It's not something you can just turn on for the weekend.

I think of the times I would come home from school and just sit in the living room while mom ironed, and things would come out. Though we weren't focused on each other--maybe I was reading Newsweek or doing homework--she might ask questions or I might suddenly volunteer information, and valuable interaction would occur. Not every day, but many days.

I had lots of quality time with my parents, and it was not only because they're great parents, but because I had constant access to them. I never, ever, felt neglected or slighted. Even when Dad worked three jobs--teaching during the day, the Sears hardware department several nights a week, and selling Book of Life door-to-door when he could--and mom worked at the newspaper, I don't remember feeling a sense of absence. I should probably give that more thought, because I'm sure Mom and Dad look back at various times during my growing-up years and think they were horrible, neglectful parents who should have spent more time with their kids. But I just never felt that way. I should tell them that. And I should thank them for staying together, even though there were undoubtedly times (I know of two) when their relationship hit bumps. I had a blessed childhood. I don't want them to have any doubts about that.

I'm playing a lot of Amateur Psychologist here, I realize. But as I watched that father and son in Panera Bread, I was confident that this was no Uncle Dad. This was a father who saw his son every day, and laughing and conversing with him and sharing a meal with him was as natural as breathing. And that kid probably doesn't realize, yet, just how fortunate he is.

Posted on December 20, 2004 06:33 PM| Permalink

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