My dad taught me how NOT to be a dad

Growing up, Michael Christensen’s life was overshadowed by a father who was unpredictable, violent and largely absent. He reveals here how their turbulent relationship has had a profound effect on his own approach to parenting   

One afternoon in early February this year, out of the blue, my four-year-old daughter Willow asked, ‘Why don’t you have a daddy?’

It took me by surprise. I explained that he’d passed away because sadly he hadn’t been very healthy, but that he would have loved to meet her if he was still around. ‘You mean he didn’t eat all his courgettes?’ she asked. Staring back into her eyes, it dawned on me that I’ve never considered how my father shaped me as a dad. ‘Something like that,’ I replied.

My dad was not your archetypal fatherly role model. He could be violent, bad-tempered and often had a bit too much to drink. My daughter’s question led to the realisation that, at the age of 35, I have a lifetime of questions that I never asked my father. For example, about why his dad knew the Kray twins; about the time there were wads of cash in the fridge; about my two half-sisters I only properly met at his funeral; about how our family home came to be repossessed a week after his death; about love; about why he always spelt my name ‘Micheal’ not ‘Michael’. It made me sad, for me and for him. I promised myself that my wife Caroline, my daughter and my son Jude, two, would never be left in the dark about me. It’s why I’m so grateful that, six months ago, I moved my family from Australia back to the UK and, albeit for the time being, I became a full-time dad. 

After eight years in Australia, we waved goodbye to our sunny life on Sydney’s northern beaches, where – as the editor of GQ Australia – my job reigned supreme. I would be home for bedtime roughly once a fortnight and I’d travel at least once a month. Nine hours after the birth of Jude, I deemed it necessary to go into the office. It was a Sunday.

Back in London, we fell straight into an easy routine, juggling my freelance writing and Caroline’s work for a charity with childcare. Then the pandemic hit. The unprecedented times of lockdown have meant I’m around for supper, bath and bedtime every night. This extra family time has brought my relationship with my own parents to a head. My mother Melinda and I have always been close, so the importance of her role to me is crystal clear. But I’ve long left questions unaddressed when it comes to my father Philip’s role in shaping me as a parent.

One of my most vivid memories of him is from April 2002. I woke to find him sitting on my bed, his breath short and cigarette-stained. He had broken into the house he was not permitted to enter. What ensued was traumatic and unsavoury and sadly resulted in me telling him I never wanted to see him again.

The next month, my dad reached out and asked if he could deliver a card to me. We had to stand outside our family house so as not to break the restraining order imposed on him by my mum for harassment. We tentatively shared a hug, then he left. Eighteen years later, I still have the card. It is fronted by a chicken and a daisy on a rusty orange patchwork. Inside reads:

‘Micheal, Thank you for being my son and making me so proud. Whatever the future brings I will always love you, Dad’

That turned out to be the last time I saw him before he died. Two weeks later his broken and diseased heart stopped; broken because the woman he ultimately loved but treated terribly (my mother) had divorced him; diseased thanks to an adulthood of irregular exercise, high blood pressure, stress and a penchant for excesses such as 20 cigarettes a day. I’m no expert but cocaine and vodka Red Bull binges on weekdays aged 47 were the likely culprits to finally stop the beat.

At times I was afraid of my father. His temper threw him in directions he often couldn’t control. Finding out at a young age that he committed countless infidelities knocked my willingness to confide in him about anything. Being ‘away for work’ a lot transpired to cover up a two-year-long affair; ‘dodgy’ acquaintances showing up at the house with baseball bats were unexplained – these memories clouded the glory years that preceded my adolescence.

But there were good times. I know my father worked incredibly hard to provide for us and the greatest thing he afforded me was my education, something he never had. I didn’t at the time, but now I smile about having a dad who was out clubbing past 4am in his late 40s, only to be up, bathed and dressed in time for the school run at 7.30am for me and my two younger siblings, Miles and Courtney.

As the eldest of four (I also have a twin brother, Dominic, who’s technically younger than me) I was always the responsible one, healthily protective of my younger brother and sister when we were growing up. Dominic, on the other hand, is the more laid-back and funnier of us. As we grew older, Dominic and Dad became more like mates than father and son. I became more like a moral compass he was weary of navigating. Dominic was away at boarding school while I was at home, privy to our parents’ marriage falling apart, but the relationships were already destined to be different. When Dad drove fast, I’d be the one asking him to slow down while my twin egged him on to go faster; when he made a joke about an attractive waitress, I’d be embarrassed while Dominic would humour him. He had this enviable ability to take our father’s faults with a pinch of salt and make light of them.

Dominic’s greater acceptance of our father has taught me that no two father/child relationships are the same. It has helped me home in on what kind of a father my daughter needs compared to what my son is looking to me for, even at their young ages. From playing football, dolls or dress-up with them, or who wants cuddles versus bribes, the differences aren’t binary or gender related; rather they relate to the children’s evolving individual traits.

I made my peace with Dad’s death a long time ago, but when our daughter was born in 2015 I found myself thinking about him more. We named her after the tree that I later discovered my siblings had scattered Dad’s ashes under. Two years after that, our son entered the world on Dad’s birthday. The significance of both these things isn’t lost on me. Despite the sour demise of our relationship, he was still a part of my DNA, and it was nice to think his memory lived on.

Two of my father’s traits have also remained with me. I have happily inherited one and pray to lose the other: his dress sense and temper. Earning many eye-rolls from family and friends, my Instagram feed shows I’ve embraced the same mid-90s ‘ugly’ fashion sense as him, and so, unbeknown to them (yet), have my children.

But his temper still scares me, as it did when he lost it (like, really lost it), and it scares me to think it might resurface in me. I’ve always been very calm, but life, let alone parenthood, causes tempers to fray on occasion – not least when rationalising with Willow about why she can’t have her own way, only for her younger brother to nonchalantly steal her favourite toy. When such moments are close to overcoming us, I practise deep breaths out loud and encourage the children to as well. And, strange as it sounds, I carry my father’s temper with me. By holding it close, I hope never to lose it like he did – with anyone.

My wife never met my father but wishes she had. Spending more time together as a family, it’s been good to share fonder memories of him with her. My wife has a wonderful dad and often says I remind her of him, which is nice because he is a lovely father figure and a great grandpa. While my dad, perhaps inadvertently, died a book of carefully kept secrets, I want to be the opposite, my pages always accessible to those close to me. We now live near to where I grew up, and I take Willow and Jude to the places I used to go to as a child. They love to hear stories about my past – from me, from their aunt, uncles and their grandmother. I’m a lot more open with them than I remember my father being with me, which I see as undoubtedly a privilege my parents have given me.

It’s something I plan to celebrate with my family today, on Father’s Day. It always used to involve breakfast in bed, a corny card to reflect Dad’s dodgy sense of humour and a pair of socks or boxer shorts. In many ways, it’s just another day, with another bottom to wipe. This year, though, I’ll be sure to embrace the day, socks and all. Especially during these unsettling times, it’s important to celebrate ourselves when we can. So here’s to wishing all dads – past, present and future – a very happy Father’s Day. And to my own father, thanks for showing me the way, in your own unique way.