They didn’t tell you what fatherhood meant
Before the babies came.
They didn’t warn you that kids don’t outgrow puking
And you never stop jumping at the midnight jangling of the phone.
They didn’t mention it means you are
The donkey in the Christmas story, the king to your princess,
The game show host for birthday quizzes before you hand out presents.
They didn’t say fathering included tutorials
In geometry, algebra, physics, and calc.
That coaching would mean a lot less waving trophies
And a lot more hugging your girl’s shoulders
While she cried on the bench.
They didn’t say anything about all the dim-lit evenings
You’d spend watching school musicals
And cheering for the second sheep in the third row.
Lots of time at tournaments, track meets, recitals, and plays
And not so much time playing golf.
They said something about bedtime stories,
But they didn’t tell you that meant just one yellow book
They’d pull out night after night after night after night
To read in purple nightgowns curled up under sheets.
They didn’t tell you fathering meant loving their mother
And showing them the way a real gentleman will
Whistle while he empties trash
And make sure that her gas tank stays full.
They didn’t mention the many investments
You wouldn’t make in fast cars, fancy restaurants, and hot beaches
But in piano lessons, orthodontists,
And road trips with the luggage packed on top.
They didn’t say how much patience it would take
To teach them we’re the Andersons, not the Bickersons,
That everything takes practice,
And that hard work is a good gift in life.
They didn’t tell you how they’d watch you all the time
To see if you were the same at church as you were at home
And learn how the Bible talks about real life,
And find their earliest glimpse of God in the face of their dad.
