Dad Knows Everything.

As a father you give a lot to your children. Not just the material things; toys, books, clothing, food and shelter, and all those vitally important, fashionable and expensive items that will have the lifespan of a mayfly. Much more than that you give of yourself. I was in Melbourne recently, talking to my father as he spoke about a discussion with my brother, and I was amazed at his patience, his gentleness and the relaxed way in which he put his own concerns second to being a loving and patient father after doing this for fifty-five years now.

It's something I learned from him many years ago when my kids were small, and which my brother is learning now as he raises his two sons, both still under school age. My youngest is now twenty-five and the oldest thirty-four. All three girls, all smart, capable young women we love and cherish all we can. 

And it was only  a few years ago that I gave them a gift that cost me more than I thought it would at the time. When they were young I would answer every question they brought to me with a confident, calm and loving voice. With authority, and education and certainty I would listen carefully to their questions, taking them and their question equally seriously, and give precisely the truthful and complete answer.

When they would ask me how I knew the answer I would simply say, with equal authority,

"Dad knows everything."

This worked so well that before long they would come to me with any and all of their problems, in perfect expectation that Dad did indeed know absolutely everything. Most of the time this was because their questions were simple, or they were about people, which I understand better than I do physics, for example. When they reached the age at which their questions were more complex, or about complex relationships I would talk them through a process of examining their own assumptions, motives and behaviours. 

Years spent as a psychotherapist came in very handy here, providing me with skills and processes that meant I could walk them through a step-by-step process towards their own solutions. But more than that I was always interested in their lives, their worries and problems, no matter how small or how serious. Dad knows everything gave them the absolute certainty, not just that they were loved and respected, but that there was never going to be a problem in life that would overwhelm them. Their safety and security were backed by Dad's encyclopaedic brain as well as his strong right arm.

The benefits of this for me were wonderful. I was adored by my girls, always loved and respected and always the one to whom they could and would bring any problem. They would even show me off to their friends, who were almost always envious of such a sage and wise paterfamilias who could answer any question, and was willing to put aside any task to do so.

All good things come to an end, however. And a few years ago, sitting around a dinner table I broke the spell. The question I don't remember. The atmosphere was convivial, laughter and wine and the fun of a family Christmas feast had us all relaxed. And my youngest asked me a simple question. 

"I don't know," I said, "Dad doesn't know absolutely everything."

The girls laughed, and made mock of a poor old man who had only been fooling all this time. 

"Aha!"

"So, you really don't know everything!"

"Aha, I knew it! You've been faking it all along!"

Oh, it was cruel and terrible and sad. (Listen, you can hear the violins!) 

And the effect was instantaneous. I saw that particular awe in which they held me disappear right before my eyes, never to return. They don't come to me with their problems so much these days. Which I miss. But then, they don't need to. They grew up surrounded by safety and certainty. Now that they're grown they can meet the world on their own terms. And the last gift I could give them was to pull back the curtain and show them that the great and powerful Oz was really just an ordinary, if well-researched, man pretending to be omniscient. 

I miss those years, and that role, still working and fully functional only a little while ago. But once the illusion is gone it's gone forever. Which is as it should be. And it's not such a great loss. After all, my Dad did the same for me, and he survived it. That we can talk to each other as equals now, as friends, is because I've learned by doing the same for my girls.