Once upon a time

Once upon a time I thought it would be nice to be a Dad but my great dream was to be a famous writer. I planned to win the Nobel Prize for Literature or at the very least share a beer with Tim Winton as we talked about our latest work.

And soon after my best seller had hit the shelves I was going to live in a bluestone cottage near a cliff overlooking the Great Australian Bight. There, by the light of an oil lamp, I would write a few more novels and look out the window as the storm clouds rolled in. Sometimes I would hop into a helicopter and fly to the city for an important interview – probably with Ray Martin.

Now I’m a Dad living in a weatherboard cottage on a main road in the industrial heartland of Melbourne. I write short articles at the kitchen table and listen to the trucks roll by my front gate. Most days I hop onto a graffiti-streaked train and travel to the city for eight hours of toil before I return home to my family - and Ray Martin on the telly.

I’m not living the life of J.K Rowling but apart from Ray in my lounge room I’m a happy man. I have a beautiful wife and daughter (and another baby on the way) and I’ve never felt more blessed in my life.

There’s something about being a Dad that makes everything else seem second rate. It’s as if the empty ache in my guts that drove my grand ambitions has been replaced by a warm sense of real purpose. I should say, it wasn’t something I felt the moment Darcey arrived. For nearly a year after her birth I rose at five in the morning to sit at the typewriter and search for the great Australian novel within.

But as time wore on I became more interested in the warm, wispy-haired character in the cot than the imaginary characters in my book. And eventually I realised that nothing I could write would ever match the mystery, the drama and the romantic comedy that was unfolding in our house each day.

You might think I’m being a touch soft, but I’m not alone. A lot of blokes I know feel the same way about their families. Their jobs, once the ultimate source of their pride and self-esteem, are now side shows compared to the main game of being a Dad.

Ken in Perth, a company director, happily chats about his business but he saves the passion in his voice for the conversations about his kids. It’s always the simple things he mentions - like spending time building something in the shed with his youngest son, Jaxon, or coaching his older boy, Branson, at the local footy club.

Ken tells a story about a colleague, a high-flying executive, who’s often away on business.

“One day the bloke comes home from an overseas trip with a-top-of-the-range set of golf clubs for his eight-year-old son,” Ken says.

“But a few days later he’s trying to sell them. Why? Because he’s just discovered his son’s a left-hander.

“Oh mate,” Ken says. “That’s an unhappy way to find out your son’s a left hander.”

Another friend, Andrew in Sydney, has a ten-month-old boy, Fergus.

Andrew’s a commercial property executive at the top of his field, but the arrival of his son has dramatically changed his priorities. He reckons that in the past, a lot of Dads probably viewed the arrival of a newborn as a time to re-double their efforts at work. But times have changed, he says, and a lot of Dads are now realising their real work is with their kids.
 
“I haven’t totally lost interest in my professional job,” he says, ”but it’s not the same as spending time with Fergus. Suddenly I’m finding a lot more work-related projects that I can handle from home.”

It’s not always that way of course. Everybody needs a bit of time out and sometimes when Darcey is running feral and even the dog is afraid for his life, a few hours in the office are a welcome distraction.

But then, there are those times when I’m holding my daughter’s hand and we’re walking to the park, or I’m pushing her on the swing and she’s laughing that pure laughter that only kids possess, well those are the priceless moments when all the sleepless nights and the sheer hard yakka of being a Dad are more than worthwhile.

It’s true, once upon a time I had dream of writing a prize-winning novel. But once upon a time I must have also made a wish. And now I’m happy to say, I think my wish has won out.

By Bruce Atherton

This article was first published in Australian Family Magazine, November 2004.