My dear children, this one is for you.

Stop what you are doing for just a moment. Don't worry about who said what, who did what and whose turn it is to sit in the middle. If your brother touches you, let it go. If your sister winds you up, respond with a touch of humour and generosity.

No, we're not there yet.  In fact, the journey is only just beginning.  And anyway, its not about what we do when we 'get there' - its about the 'getting there'. 

So wind down the window and enjoy the view.

When I was about your age, I always imagined that one day I would have the chance to visit this land of adventure and opportunity. And as strange as it may seem to you now, it was my dream growing up to see 'Jaws' at Universal, visit the rockets that stand outside the Kennedy Space Center, and experience the magic of Disney first hand.  Night after night, I remember reading about this stuff in the encyclopaedia next to my bed and wondering how anyone could have turned an entire country into such a wonderful playground for teenage boys.

So, if I'm honest, we're doing this for me as much as for you.  I know that Jaws is not so realistic when you're up close.  I know that Mickey's world is a rip off - where people pay to queue - and that the whole business of space travel today has nothing of the noble romance of yesteryear.  That said, I'd still like you guys to stop telling me that you are bored and let me enjoy my moment.

No, that came out wrong.  I don't want you to think for one moment that I want to do this thing alone.  Quite the opposite.  It's so much more fun with you guys next to me.

Maybe you don't realise it now, but this trip is about all of us creating and laying down stories together - fleeting moments in time that for the rest of our lives - no matter what the future holds, whether together or apart - promise to remind us and define us as a family.

Some might say, perhaps, that I'm just an experience junkie, pretending to be an 'experience architect', passing on to you (my kids) a dangerous habit. And, perhaps, that is true.  But let me tell you this.

When I saw your face as you swam up close to that dolphin; when I recall our conversation after surviving that roller-coaster; and when I think about you drawing breath in awe as you watched the sun set over Manhattan, I cannot help but feel that these moments together are ours to treasure, forever.

For what they are worth, then, this is my gift.

And before I go, there is just one more thing.

While you were arguing in the back seat, you remember that I asked the taxi driver to drop us off at the front entrance of the swanky hotel and not the side. This was frustrating for your guys, as it meant we sat several minutes longer in the Manhattan traffic. 

You were tired, I know. Believe me, though, I did it for a reason.

I wanted you to have your moment.  I wanted you to be the stars.  I wanted you to live the so-called american dream.

I was hoping that you would stop worrying about who was in the middle and who said what.  I wanted you to wind down the window and simply enjoy being the centre of the world - just for a moment.

Not just the centre of mine.

One day, if not now, you'll understand and want the same for your own kids.

Your Dad.

Sometimes things happen that simply don’t make quite enough sense.

There was no need for anyone to talk to me as I stood in the queue, hoping to change my first class ticket from London to Brussels for an earlier train.  As I explained to the woman at the desk, I was more than happy to sit in second class, if that meant I could get home forty minutes earlier than planned.

If you can measure the quality of time in hugs, smiles and conversation about things that matter, then this weekend had been a good one.  But now it was over.  I was tired and keen to return home, having spent all my love and energy in the company of my ‘London kids’. 

A man stood in line behind me.  I am not sure when he had joined the queue or quite how the conversation got started, but as I waited for the woman to return with my new ticket we began to talk. 

To be honest, I was only half listening, so did not quite catch the name of the Caribbean island from which he was returning or the exact nature of the project in which he was involved over there.  Neither did I ask him to repeat this information, as I simply assumed that this forty-something, well dressed man with a strong Dutch accent was just being polite -  passing the time of day before it was his turn to be at the front of the queue.

The woman at the desk called me over and handed me my new ticket.  But as I turned to leave, the man in line approached me again.  He clearly wanted to keep the conversation going.

‘I believe we have met for a reason,’ he started to say.  ‘I have a very strong feeling about who you are and believe that we have an opportunity together to make a difference.  You are a good man, with a good heart.  You are a good dad, trying to do your best for your children.  I see that in you.  I feel that very strongly about you.’

Taller than me, I looked up at this stranger who, for whatever reason, had chosen to speak with unusual candor and intent.

If only you knew, I thought to myself.  If only you knew how complicated it feels to be anything close to ‘good’ when it comes to being a dad these days.  If only you knew how many times I have stood in this very station, at this very platform, caught in the middle distance between children in two countries. 

Despite the awkwardness, there was a warmth in his voice that I found hard to explain.  Why me?  Why now?  What did any of this mean?  My mind was full of questions.

Thanking him for his kindness, I explained that I needed to call my younger son back to resolve a technical difficulty that he was having with the new iPod he had just purchased.  

As we shook hands, he told me his name. 

John. 

Looking back as I passed through the security barrier, I noticed that the stranger on the platform was gone.  Perhaps I’ll never know what he wanted and, to be honest, I don’t really care.

It was just another fragment – a moment in time worth remembering.  All part of life’s unfolding and wonderfully enriching story.

When is a dad not a dad? 

This question has bugged me for years now, but I guess that perhaps that’s normal – particularly as someone who lives in the shadow of divorce and the endless ritual of weekend ‘appointments’ with my children. 

Once upon a time, I never would have given it a second thought.  I had always ‘been there’ and simply assumed that I would always be captain of the ship that steered these young lives towards adulthood.

I never once thought, back in the day, that we would end up shipwrecked.  I never imagined, washed up on the shores of a strange land, how everything I had taken for granted would be challenged.

So what makes a dad?

Do we lay claim to this honorable role by virtue of our biological connection to these young lives?  Do we command their love as a by-product of what we do – day after day, year after year?  Are we, in other words, as uniquely important to our children as we like to imagine?  Or can anyone with the right level of commitment and dedication lay claim to the paternal wheel?

Philosophers have argued this point – albeit at a higher level – for centuries.  It’s called the old doing versus being chestnut.

In 1995, a better man than me, Jean-Dominique Bauby, editor-in-chief of French Elle and the father of two young children, found himself completely paralysed, speechless and only able to move one eyelid.  With his eyelid he ‘dictated’ a remarkable book that reflects deeply on the question on what it means to be human – and what it means to be a dad.

Describing himself as ‘something of a zombie father’, Bauby gives us a deeply moving account of his Father’s Day meeting with his children, Théophile and Céleste.

“As he walks, Théophile dabs a Kleenex at the thread of saliva escaping my closed lips.  His movements are tentative, at once tender and fearful, as if he were dealing with an unpredictable animal.  As soon as we slow down, Céleste cradles my head in her bare arms, covers my forehead with noisy kisses and says over and over, ‘You’re my dad, you’re my dad,’ as if in incantation.

… Until my stroke we had felt no need to fit this made-up holiday into our emotional calendar.  But this time we spend the whole of our symbolic day together, affirming that even a rough sketch, a shadow, a tiny fragment of a dad is still a dad.” (The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly, 1997)

It is hard to imagine the depth of feeling and haunting sense of loss that lies between the lines.  And tragically, there were no more Father’s Days for this family to celebrate as, two days after the publication of his memoir, Bauby passed away.

So what does make a dad?

The more I think about it, the more I realize that there are no easy answers – no one-fits-all recipe for this ‘parenting game’.  But one thing I can say for sure is that Bauby got it right - a tiny fragment of a dad is still a dad.

Even if all we can do is tell our children how much we love them with the blink of one eye.