Did They Send Me Daughters When I Asked for Sons?* (Spoiler alert: Yes!)

I read the New York Times Room for Debate on “Are Modern Men Manly Enough?” the other day, and it infuriated me. The current trajectory of deciding to attack men and masculinity because it’s no longer PC to attack women and femininity is really frustrating. Gender roles are frustrating and problematic, and I’m going to leave it right there.

Yup, right there.

I did not find any persuasive arguments in that particular RFD: I agreed with the common sense authors, and found those stuck in Leave it to Beaver, well, stuck in Leave it to Beaver.

It did, however, get me thinking about what I think a good man is, and subsequently, my father and his father. My grandfather died earlier this year, leaving behind a legacy of gentle faith, natural living, and beautiful carpentry. All his sons learned woodworking from him, though my father is probably the best at it because he uses it the most often. (Don’t worry, uncles, you’re both very talented also!)

My grandad built me a dollhouse when I was six, and a carved pen and pencil set when I was twenty-three. My dad completely restored the house I grew up in. It’s not for me to say whether or not we should always follow in our parents footsteps, but reading that RFD made me realise how much the builder’s aspect looks like love to me, to my family.

Love also looks a lot like this. That's my granddad. And a wild fawn.

So, I’m going to learn woodworking from my dad. I’ve always wanted to, but never had the wherewithal to just go down to his woodshop and start helping him. Like me, my father is an introvert, and the shop is very much his space.

But it’s not just about love and family tradition. It’s also about practicality. The other half of modern culture where I live (and who I’m friends with) is “throw money at the problem until it goes away”. I am firmly entrenched in this camp. My brother can reshingle a roof. My mom can fix and replace pipes. My dad can… do everything. I can write blog posts, make cookies, and make you a mean martini when you get home from your hard day. If something breaks, I wail into my candy-striped apron until Lennon fixes it.**

I have some basics down. You don’t grow up in a family like mine without getting excited about sawzalls (my parents each have their own) and tablesaws and knowing to watch your fingers while you’re cutting that plank because that’s how pop-pop lost the top of his. That led me to tech theater in college. I can build a set. But, I couldn’t build you a chair. Or a cabinet. Or a door. I can’t install a doorknob. Or sand a floor. Or put up real walls.

Ultimately, I’m hoping the tutelage will turn to finishing the master bathroom - the very last room to be done in the house my parents bought twenty years ago. I learn by doing. I should have all the practical DIY skills I need by next year.

And next Christmas, everyone gets reindeer made of pipe sockets and copper tubing.

*To clarify my title, my father was tickled pink at having a daughter. I am the only girl child in my family. 

**To clarify that entire paragraph.