By Mike Payne

02nd November 2009

Sometimes Dads are seen as omnipotent - a universal fixer of things. The challenge is Dads are not all-knowing. They are frequently tired and absent physically, and sometimes, emotionally. So how do you as a Dad model the behaviour you want to see? wonders Mike Payne.

By Mike Payne

02nd November 2009

By Mike Payne

02nd November 2009

How do you become confident about not knowing? Maybe it is time to review the male perspective around being equal, but different.

The things the universal fixer mends are physical, so a repairer of broken toys or household stuff, indeed an implied part of the stereotype is that by definition a Dad is not a fixer of emotional things, only physical things. How come such a strong stereotype exits and is accepted?

I want to start with some observations from a child’s perspective, particularly a boy’s. As a boy there tends to be a huge curiosity around cause and effect, finding out how things work, a desire to take things apart and explore the inner workings. The curiosity is immediate so that means ‘right now’ and with whatever tools and knowledge that are to hand. So the investigation is unlikely to be with the right tool, maybe instead using a hard thing to bash it open like a convenient peppermill or ornament etc. And taking things apart, particular a new gift is unlikely to be perceived as deserving of love and cuddles.

As an adult, a Dad has different levels of knowledge and aptitude at fixing things, which sounds completely trite but actually is a direct and realistic challenge to the stereotype. Rob Hopkins (co-Founder Transition Towns) describes this generation as a ‘useless generation’. By that he means we may be adept at some manual dexterity on a keyboard/mouse manipulating shapes on a screen in computer-land, but when it comes to mending stuff in the real world, punctures in tyres or growing vegetables or hanging door or whatever – we as a society have lost many skills which only a couple of generations ago were routine. This could vary depending on age, while I was taught a purely academic curriculum at school my daughter is being taught some very (very) basic carpentry, to wire a plug, cook etc. However she learned to fix a puncture because she was interested and because I was there to teach her. That I was in gentle repose on the sofa when she wanted to learn is another matter altogether. And I know how to fix punctures because my father taught me, so I wonder what happens in households where there has been no ‘universal fixer of things’ present or willing to pass on the skills when the Dad is called upon to fulfil his duty.

In simple terms there does seem to be a picture which regardless of actual experience creates a foundation for the stereotype. Firstly, that males tend to ‘learn by doing’, perhaps re-enforced as children by putting things together having initially broken them; the creative process enhanced from that OMG feeling of “how do I put this back together before someone’s finds out I’ve broken it”. This is combined with the social conditioning that fixing things is ‘men’s work’ not only engrained in the hunter-gatherer instincts but in the male/female roles which have evolved out of the pre-and post industrial society. Perhaps it is understandable that from this collective picture the idea evolves that by some form of osmosis being male means you automatically understand how to use tools which are sharp and pointy, so the universal fixer automatically becomes the Dad’s job. Indeed sometimes a really big part of his role, he being almost defined or measured as a good father by his ability with a Philips screwdriver.

And everyone has a learning edge, whatever their skill level and whatever the activity. This is the point where you move from having full understanding of the activity and process, to the point where you ‘haven’t done this before’ but its looks similar to thingermy-wotsit or that looks like it might go in there so I’ll have a try, to the point where actually you really don’t not know what you are doing. Really, really don’t.

It is easy to be relaxed and calm around tools you are familiar and feel confident with, and the child can mirror that sense of calm. The closer you get to the edge of your learning edge, and therefore your comfort zone, the less easy it is to take a step back and maintain that natural calm which subconsciously gives confidence. The more tired you are, or the more rushed you are or irritated the less self-aware you become and less able to handle changes and situations which could lead to an accident happening. And when you have no knowledge of these tools – whether its Mum or Dad – what is the strategy for calmly saying no, I think I need to seek help to fix this, right now it will have to remain unfixed.

And there is frequently an ‘us’ in this fixing scene, the Dad and the child/children. That measuring the width of something long is so much easier if two of you can do it (and so easy to get wrong, which I never understand), or holding something steady so you can mark drill points or saw through. And the huge learning in reaching a point where you realise you are not sure what to do, when it is time to have a cuppa and pause and ponder what to do next. The space for the Dad to ask advice; what do you think? And would that work and maybe why not – and duh why didn’t I think of that! Alternative approaches to ‘if it doesn’t fit hit it harder’, or ‘in the last resort read the instructions’ or just ‘work faster and faster and faster’ to get it done. I’m a past master at that one.

So this can be a great place for not only fixing things and achieving that sense of ‘blimey I did it’, but also for the adult being true to themselves and honest in what they can and cannot do – including genuinely celebrating what they are good at – and how to work through and around what they find difficult. So when mistakes are made to understand how to resolve them and the emotions which arise when things don’t work, when the fix really, really does not work no matter how much care and thought and love you have given to this thing which needed to be fixed.

And of course then we come to the bit about working together, when that part of the mind which is ‘head controlled’ is quietened as you relax into concentration and the true self feels free to communicate. Creating the space where there is communication side by side – a style many boys prefer – and enter a more open communication space, even if few words are said.

This contemplative and calm communication and state can be replicated by doing repetitive physical activity. In Mexico there is a tradition where a father weaves wool around a cross, winding it between the crossed wood so it becomes like a wheel of coloured wool, the cross being the spokes of the wheel, a different colour is used for each child. If you follow this lovely idea as a simple repetitive process it mirrors the times when you do those things which you do things without engaging the brain, those times when perhaps a problem recognised or unrecognised appears with a solution or new perspective.

To consciously get to this quiet brain time, where huge things can be communicated in the look of an eye, or in the silence of not saying, is tricky. The time my daughter chose to learn how to fix the puncture was not a great time for me. That it had been un-repaired for 2 or 3 days (or was it a week?) was a factor, but also I wanted to follow her energy when it was there and it was a conscious decision to lever my oh-leave-me-alone-self from the sofa-land-of-doing-blissful-nothingness, to universal-fixit-man. That is rarely easy, so how do you model your behaviour to reach these points of relaxed calm.

I wonder whether this difficult time is also an opportunity to look at this whole issue from a different angle. Can we use our general desire to ‘do’ things both to unwind but also to include the desires of the children, and maybe even doing some fixing. And this I suggest will be a manufactured space. By that I mean consciously creating something which doesn’t exist now, so plan to create the opportunity for you and those around you. I’m going to use gardening as the example, and even if the start point is one potted plant on the window sill and not knowing or desiring or even interested to know anything about runner beans, that’s the start point of this manufactured space.

Time is a key factor here, and one change of perspective is those times when I am frazzled – like I’ve just coming home from work and just give me 5 minutes and I will be fine – these are exactly the times when you feel you don’t have any time. But when we lie on a death beds, if we have regrets it is less likely to be about getting something done, more about how we related to others.

A space to stop, disengage the brain and do whatever comes, if in the garden wondering, noticing what has changed, just to look and chill and be a bit curious. The spin on this is to invite people to share that space, to be accessible for the demands which may be called upon you. I know it’s risky, because this could become a very powerful personal and nurturing space for you, and there is the temptation to want it private – the image of ‘man in shed’ comes to mind – but I believe there will be space for that as well as using this space for the two humans, you and child, to move to the same pace. It will involve making clear there are boundaries. Please talk, but please do that with me here and then I will come to wherever you want.

I suppose using the analogy of dad as universal and omnipotent fixer highlights the challenges of modelling our own behaviour so that others can follow and learn, including the mutual learning. Fixing something almost invariably means an interruption to something else you prefer to do, there is scope for great Mum-Dad debates about how and why it needs fixing – even more so if a sole parent, you just got yourself to have a go at then – and so the challenge of moving beyond that and recognising and valuing the other human, creating the space for that communication to be valued and expressed.

After all there is only learning, there is only love.

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