For those unfamiliar with the song, it's about a man who is too busy with work and life to be there to spend time with his son. His son learns to walk while he is away, presumably on a business trip. For his 10th birthday the man purchases his son a ball. The boy wants his father to play with the new ball with him but dad has too much work to do. Throughout these boyhood snapshots the little boy constantly says that he wants to be just like his dad some day.
Later, we see the son coming from college. By this time life has slowed down for the man. He wants to sit and talk with his son who is on the verge of adulthood. But all the kid is interested in is borrowing the car. The final scene describes the father after retirement, calling his son to talk. But once again the son is too busy to spend time with his "old man." The song concludes as the father finally realizes, in the twilight of his life, that his son did indeed turn out just like him in the worst possible way.
I've linked the song below in case you're interested in hearing it.
I have a love/hate relationship with this "stupid" song. I love the musical composition. And Harry Chapin was great at weaving a tale through his lyrical abilities (although apparently the inspiration for the song was a poem written by his wife, but I digress). But it's such a horribly bittersweet song filled with pain, heartache, and a wasted life that it makes me pensive with thought every time I listen to it. I've often wondered if there's a deeper reason for the way this song plays with my emotions.
My own father was out of the picture in my life at a very early age; 2 or 3 I believe. Although I had variously frequent and infrequent contact with him as the years went by I grew up without his daily presence. I never recall having any mental or emotional issues because of this. Perhaps it was because the separation happened when I was too young to really grasp what was going on. Perhaps it's a credit to my mother for working tirelessly to instill a solid foundation of self worth in me. Most likely it's a mixture of both reasons.
I think it's because of this solid personal stability that I've been blessed with that I have never felt unduly saddened by the disconnection I experienced with my father. And listening to "Cats in the Cradle" never results in me missing my dad. What it does do is terrify me. It terrifies me that I might unknowingly become the father described in the song; so busy with my life that I neglect being a presence in my children's lives. Logically I know perfectly well that I am nowhere near the man described in the song. And for that matter I know full well that I am nowhere near my own father, at least in terms of my bond with my children. Nevertheless, every single time I've listened to it over the years, "Cats in the Cradle" unfailingly manages to produce this subtle paranoia in the back of my mind. The fear is reinforced as I watch my son grow older and I see how our interests are diverging with the passage of time. As he grows it seems to take more effort on my part to find ways to spend time with him. I am tremendously thankful that I see the danger presented by that particular relational cliff now rather than years from now through the crystal clear mirror of hindsight.
I've often wondered if this completely irrational secret worry of mine has its roots in the childhood absence of my dad. Curious, very curious. But regardless of where it comes from I won't trade this fear for anything. I believe fear can be healthy if managed well. I never want to lose my fear of being a bad father. It pulls me back from the brink of anger when I'm especially aggravated by the kids. It keeps me grounded when I'm feeling selfish and tired of sacrificing my time for my family. It gives me clarity when reflecting the morning after a particularly poor night of parenting. It keeps me mindful and appreciative of the devotion shown me by my heavenly father. It drives me to strive to be the teaching father of Proverbs 4:1-9, the compassionate father of Psalm 103:13, and the non provoking father of Ephesians 6:4.
So I will keep this particular baseless and irrational fear thank you very much.
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