Field Note on Fatherhood

The other day my son’s internal world became legible for a few minutes. He told a story, but it was so much more. It was one of those rare moments where he felt safe enough to put something held close inside into the world as language. In the gravity of the moment, my son sat and spoke with a soft stoicism, fully present. It was a quiet reveal of a psychological schema forming in real time… attachment, identity, morality, and the anxious haunts humans inherit before they have language for them.

That morning, the air had flow you could feel. It was the day before Thanksgiving and school was closed. The gloomy November overcast was cut softly by candlelight in our apartment, and we made chocolate pancakes. In retrospect, flow always feels foreshadowy, like potential. 

Like every morning, it had its usual frictions, too. Small resistances, small corrections. Serving as a soft but stubborn boundary to a four year old right in front of their twin has its own challenges. Those micro-repairs scale into a container in which he feels safe, underscoring the value of multidimensional leadership. When parents are sturdy, kids believe we can carry things with them. The story in the car was earned through ecology.

The first half of his story was simple: scared of police cars chasing him and policemen taking me away. For a four-year-old, police are a predictable symbol of something outside his control capable of separating him from someone he loves. 

Then came a profound second act reclaiming his power. He named everyone in his family: his sister, his mom, our dog, all five grandparents. And he spoke about wanting to save everyone, save his family. In response to separation, my little man is holding the system together before he can define it. Making meaning before vocabulary. 

These are the purest moments in fatherhood. That’s secure attachment forming live, right there in the backseat as we drove to the trailhead.