No More Mr. Fix-It

by Frank O'Brien

As a man and a father, part of me still clings to the primordial concept of man as provider. I secretly wish I was the ultimate provider; the perfect protector. I secretly wish I could snap my fingers and make every one of my family’s problems and fears disappear. It is not that way, though, no matter how hard I wish.

This realization—that I can’t solve every problem—became clear recently. Thanks to my eight-year-old daughter.

A good student, she makes my wife and me proud with her enthusiasm for school and her thirst for knowledge. She happily tells us everything that happens during her days—the good and the bad. When I was a child, I did not tell my parents any of my daily events. Arguments, fights and debates were never mentioned, so my daughter’s honesty is at times startling.

Over the years, we have had many discussions of how best to respond in a variety of situations: to her classmate’s comments that she perceives as malicious or mean spirited, for example, or how best to react when she feels excluded. Though I prefer to think all’s well when I’m not with her, I would be a fool to think these kinds of things never happen.

If it was up to me, I would build a force field around my children that would prevent them from being on the receiving end of any pain. But for now, our conversations are my way to help arm her for life’s ups and downs. The problem is—and I hate to say it—in the end, these conversations usually end up with me telling her exactly what to do.

Until recently, I believed this was working. I believed my daughter was heading to school full of new strategies to deal with any unexpected inter-personal issues. John Gray, the author of Men are From Mars, Women are From Venus, explains a man’s approach to relationships very simply: men act like Mr. Fix-it.

That was me. Mr. Fix-It. I was telling my daughter exactly what she needed to do. Presto, problem solved, now let’s move on to dinner. Shouldn’t everything be so easy?

My wife and I have had many discussions about my empathetic abilities—or lack thereof. I wasn’t prepared for the realization that just listening was sometimes enough. I was trying to fix her problems, but I was missing something much more important in the process.

My wife and kids usually pick me up from work. The drive home is often filled with questions about what’s for dinner, complaints about what’s for dinner, questions about dessert, about our days, how work was, and what happened at school. My daughters will regale my wife and me with tales of the schoolyard, with an honesty that is astonishing.

It is usually at this point in the drive where I lay out my blueprint for any repair jobs that my daughters need to carry out the next day at school.

Recently, however, my plan failed. As I pointed out my sure fire step-by-step plan, designed to prevent any social mistakes, my daughter started crying.

“What’s wrong?” My strategy had always worked before so why wasn’t it working now? “Honey, I can help you through this. We just need to figure out the best way to handle things. What you need to do is…”

She looked at me through her tears and yelled, “Dad, you aren’t listening to me and I don’t want to talk about it!”

I was stunned. Until then, I had not felt powerless in my child’s eight, almost nine years. I had always been able to step in and fix everything. That’s a big part of what made me feel like a dad—like a man. It defined my role, and now that role was being taken away from me.

From that day on, the most news I received about my daughter’s day was whether it was good or bad. If it was bad, or at least not a good day, she told me so with the caveat that she did not want to talk about it. This, as a parent of young children, was tough. My kids, from the time they could speak, had talked to us about everything.

Suddenly it was clear to me that I needed a new strategy. I knew that just being there was not enough for her—and not enough for me. We have always talked, and I have always loved listening to her tell me what’s on her mind; the different species of dolphins, say, or the reasons dogs have wet noses. I wanted her to feel that she could still tell me about her ups and downs in the social war zone known as recess.

Talking about it with my wife, I was slightly exasperated. I get frustrated when I can’t fix something quickly. My wife has told me that sometimes, listening is all she wants from me. My daughter was looking for me to do the same. I remember many times as a child, as a teenager, all I wanted from my parents was to listen. I knew I was able to deal with most of the situations that arose at school; I just needed to talk it out with someone close to me. My daughter wanted the same from me.

In trying to be Mr. Fix-it, I wasn’t really hearing her. Yes, I am still Dad, but she is becoming her own person. She is living her life and trying, like the rest of us, to learn how to live it as she goes along. At the same time, I am learning—and re-learning—how to be a father.

Frank O’Brien is the father of Aideen and Megan, and husband of Amanda. He is developing a writing career and is currently authoring a book on his experience in the restaurant industry.