by Rich McDowell

As the son of a soldier I skied the Alps, toured Italy and climbed Mt. Fuji in Japan.

As a soldier-father I saw my son stand at the fence separating East and West Berlin, SCUBA dive off the Big Island in Hawaii and with his sister ski White Face, site of the 1980 Winter Olympics.

As a child I attended four fourth grades and felt queasy every time I passed a school into my adult years, remembering what it was like to break into a new system and make new friends.

As a father, I pulled my son out of high school prior to the start of his senior year and my daughter out prior to the start of eighth grade to come to Fort Benning.

Both had high aspirations—the son was going to be the star on his high-school lacrosse team, but arriving here found no one could even spell lacrosse let alone play it. The daughter’s
dreams of leads in school plays and starring on her basketball team were also dashed.

It took a long time for them to forgive me for that move. But that’s the way life can be in the military. Ups and downs.

Looking back, there are things I’d do differently to hopefully make their lives, their mother’s and mine easier.

First, instead of being the great stone face, I’d show more joy and sorrow. I’d hug them more. I’d be more open with my love and praise for my children. Why does a kid need to be perfect to earn praise?

Second, I would spend more time with them. The Army kept us dads away enough as it was. When we weren’t deployed, we’d go to work before they got up and often come home after they were in bed. And while I was eager to help coach the baseball, basketball and soccer teams, I was usually AWOL when it came to the homework table.

The good news is that our son and daughter did turn out to be upstanding adults in whom we are most proud—see dads—we don’t need to be perfect to raise near perfect kids.

But it won’t hurt us to every once in a while take stock of what kind of fathers we are and tell our kids just how much they mean to us and resolve to be better parents. We’ll never get a second chance to do it right—with the possible exception of grandkids, that is.