Dads

Dad was the quiet one who read to me and then encouraged me with my own reading. Mum was a bit of a drama queen but taught me to read music and play the piano.
Like most other children I didn’t realise how valuable these skills were at the time or that some may not be so fortunate.
Dad was only fifty when he died. I wish I hadn’t taken him so much for granted.

Such interesting memories here.
This is a pre memory. I was under a year old but DM told me how much I liked going out on his bicycle.
I'm sorry for all you who have unhappy memories.

I had very loving parents but can’t remember dad reading or playing with me.
My much older brother read to me but the other brother 8 yrs older than me. was dyslexic (not diagnosed then) and used to asked me how to spell words at a very young age.

Me and mum used to play word games and read together . I could read before I went to school too.

Dad was funny, sociable and musical and we loved to sing together.

Neither of my parents read to me and I didn't go to nursery school.
When I began school all the other children could recite the alphabet,
read a little and write their names.
Fortunately for me,I learnt quickly and have remained an avid reader and writer all my life.

My father never did any domestic chores except he liked to polish his shoes and press his suits.
We never employed anyone in the house to fix the electrics and the plumbing.
He did those jobs with great ease when he wasn't building radios and TV sets or reading books about mechanics and engineering.
When he was smoking cigarettes he was smoking a pipe.
He liked to hang out with military friends.
He always dressed as though it was still 1940.

Kate1949

My 'dad' was a violent, abusive, drunken, horrible man. The thought of him reading to or playing with us is laughable.

Same here apart from the drink.💐

Such a lovely photo Gramaretto.❤️

cornergran

Reading before I went to school I’m struggling to recall being read to although I’m sure I must have been as I recall books suitable for 2-3 year olds in the house. There were no other children. I was always encouraged to read, loved and still love books.

My Dad was a practical man. He built things, made toys, mended things, cleaned my shoes, made sure my bedroom was warm when I needed to study, decorated, chased rodents away. I often helped him, unless it involved rodents! He also took over when my mum was in hospital, which was often for a few years, made sure I was fed and laundry done. Mum was the homemaker, knitted just about everything, baked and cooked from scratch every day. Sometimes worked very part time, always home when I was. They both gardened, often I helped, or maybe hindered. Mum was more tactile than dad, we were close. I think dad was a product of his generation in terms of showing emotion The only time I saw him cry was when my mum died with us both by her side and then it was only for a few minutes.

My heart goes out to everyone with painful memories of childhood.

Your parents sound very similar to mine although I don't remember any rodents!
Nor do I remember my mother gardening - that was Dad's domain 👨‍🌾
He was a great role model and luckily my DH got to know him. He would tell DH (and my brothers) about his wartime experiences but he never told me and didn't talk about them generally.

I think dad was a product of his generation in terms of showing emotion
Yes, I think many men were, brought up not to show emotion.
I'm sure we all exasperated him sometimes as teenagers too.

ClicketyClick

Never had anything read to me by mum or dad, no play, never had a kiss from dad or mum who only started showing any affection in her later years.

Exactly the same as me. No cuddles. Lots of smacking. But we were well fed, well dressed and had every material thing we needed. I think they were typical of that generation. They did their best having themselves of course been raised by Victorian parents. They both adopted distinctive male and female roles so Dad didn’t read to us. They stayed together and were helpful parents really. I would love to have them back.

My father was as good as a father could be. When I was a young child he was very physically demonstrative, unlike my mother, though this did not continue into adolescence. When I was about 8 or 9 I used to write little stories and he would illustrate them. He was as bad at drawing as I was, but I didn’t care. I thought his pictures were brilliant.

When my husband died at 40, my father took over his role with my sons, taking them out to give me a break, and subtly educating them all the time. When my younger son’s own children were small, he felt he didn’t know how to be a father, as he couldn’t remember his own father. I told him to take grandfather as a role model - there couldn’t be a better one. It seemed to work.

I can’t remember either of my parents reading to me, though they probably did. I could read fluently myself by the age of four.

They did their best having themselves of course been raised by Victorian parents.

My Dad was a Victorian! 🙂

Someone must have read to me but I can't remember because I could read before I went to school. There were always lots of books around.

I don't remember either of my parents reading to me, though I did learn to read early and have always loved reading.
My DF used to either work late or bring paperwork home so, apart from doing the washing up (with me drying), he probably did not have time in the evenings for reading to me.

My DF did help with my English homework when I was older and obviously staying up later, helping me learn poems and Shakespeare. He was also a reader but only had time to read much once he retired.

My DF did do a lot with the family at weekends and was a lovely, gentle man. My DM was the strict one.

However, although I don’t remember my parents reading to me, I do remember being read to at school. Just So Stories, Milly-Molly-Mandy, and a book about Marco Polo that we all adored. I have never been able to trace it.

My dad read to us,from a young age we went to the library,we had comics ,we were encouraged to read and all four of us still are avid readers.I adored my dad,he gave me my love of words,his sense of humour but not his drawing ability,my relationship with my mum took work but it's only as I became older that I realised we clashed because we were so alike ...

My dad was monstrous, abused us all.

Stepdad, on the other hand, lovely man. More caring than my mother.

I don't remember either of my parents reading to me although I have a photo of my father sitting on the settee at my godmother's with a book, apparently reading to me and my sister and our godmother's little girl. I learned to read before I started school and we were always encouraged to read and books were made available and we went down the lane to exchange our books at the mobile library which came round every other Thursday.

If I can find that photo I might post it. I don't think showing pictures of us age 6 or 7 gives too much away.

Basgetti

My dad was monstrous, abused us all.

Stepdad, on the other hand, lovely man. More caring than my mother.

Well done your stepdad, just goes to show that blood isn’t always thicker than water.

Well done to all with horrible dads for getting through it, despite the scars.

My Dad seemed rather distant when I was a child. He was a GP in single handed practice and we lived above the surgery. He was on duty 24/7. However, he was punctilious in making sure that tried all sorts of sports and activities including cultural. Life was a very serious business. No fun.
He was a different man with the grandchildren though. He could be more relaxed with them. He did once tell me he loved me though even though it was a prelude to a row about how untidy my house was!

Gingster

Such a lovely photo Gramaretto.❤️

Thanks Gingster The photos were taken on holiday at Charlton Mackrell, Somerset in the summer of 1949.
At least that's what is written in the album.

My Dad & I loved each other very much. He was frequently very ill with Manic Depression (as it was known in those days) and was sectioned and had rounds of ECT along side a plethora of drug treatments and pycho therapies.
I was aware that he was 'different' but it's his kindness and interesting outlook on the world that I miss so much. I don't think at the time I realised how much he was teaching me about art, science & nature only that he was always fascinated with something or needed to explore places.
Like so many of our Dads he went through the very toughest of times and wanted a better future for me.
He lived with me for his last 11 years and although bed bound a lot of the time his well being and mental health were very good. Miss him so so much.

My dad was 37 when I was born and he and my M had been married for a number of years.
He wasn’t very hands on as I remember and was ill for a long time dying when I was 11.
I can’t remember a lot about him. My M was not a loving person although I believe she did her best for me.
I was an only child, but she constantly reminded me all of her long life how much she had done for me and how hard it had been.
She was very shocked once when repeating this once again my H said
“I don’t suppose it was much fun for X either”.
She looked rather embarrassed and we didn’t hear it so much after that.

The mental scars do remain. Yes we can talk about it now with trusted friends, but there was nowhere to go for help then. I could cry for the small innocent child that I was.
All I ever wanted was a normal dad.

I feel very sorry for all of you who had abusive parents. Mine were never outwardly affectionate in any way - I don't ever remember being cuddled or hugged, but I was never physically abused. My mother preferred to show her displeasure with words instead - which can leave their own emotional lifelong scars.
I do wonder, having read this thread, that that coldness or lack of emotion was in some part caused by their wartime years.
Hopefully we learned from those experiences and strived to be better parents to our own children.

Me too silverlining. When I was very small, about 5 I think. Me and my sister, who is 3 years older, walked to the local police station and asked the desk sergeant if he could stop our dad from hitting our mum. He said 'Go home girls. I can't help you'.

I am so sorry to hear that.