What the Military Never Taught Me About Being a Father

It was suggested I write about what the military taught me about being a dad. This should be simple enough.

The thing is, I wasn’t a dad in the military. In fact, I was remarkably detached and ignorant of what my teammates with kids and families were going through. I cannot recall if I ever truly contemplated what it was like to be them—going from a training evolution or deployment and walking through the door to a wife and kids. Honestly, if I think back on it, that gross lack of awareness and curiosity probably means I could have been a far better teammate had I thought beyond just trying to be passable at my job.

Hopefully, my former teammates will show me grace. While many of them now have kids in college, I’m retired and taking headers straight to the pillbox from a four-year-old aptly named Maverick. The universe has a way of sorting it all out.

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A Few Points of Order

I love being a father. I love it more than I can understand. I spent a significant portion of my life thinking I wouldn’t or shouldn’t be a dad. It is the most incredible experience of my life.

That said, this doesn’t mean I’m a good dad. I’m a shit dad much of the time. I get impatient, tired, and annoyed. I lose my temper. Will I ever be able to watch one full round of golf? Maybe not. But I get to ride bikes with my kid and go to soccer games. It’s all pretty epic.

I’ll be honest, I’m not unconvinced Maverick isn’t a sleeper agent sent to foment rebellion in our house—one set of crossed arms and a weirdly vehement “no” at a time.

So what makes me “qualified” to write this? Probably the same thing that qualified me to take him home from the hospital in the first place: I’m wholly unqualified for this.

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Four Words Worth Earning

I watch Game of Thrones a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean as soon as it’s done, I start over again. I was watching a scene where one of the main characters was told they were loyal and brave.

I immediately had two thoughts:
If a man only hears four good things about himself in his life, those have to be two of them. The other two? Being known as a good husband and a good friend.

Then I thought of Maverick sleeping in the next room and asked myself: How do I raise him so he has the character to earn and realize all four? And more existentially—shit, am I any of these?

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Don’t Quit

I had the opportunity to attend Ranger School right before Christmas Exodus in 2010. I didn’t raise my hand and quit, but I quit on myself. I caved to the weak parts. I was four minutes away from moving on to the 12-mile ruck march and heading into Darby Phase. I convinced myself that the pain I was in justified walking instead of shuffling. Four minutes of walking versus shuffling changed the course of my life.

I hooked on time, and they sent all the failures home for Exodus. Now I’m 43 years old with no tab, and it is the one true regret I have in life. I still dream about it. I am serious when I say if I could re-enlist for 63 more days, I’d go back to Ranger School and earn my tab. Like a great friend and RI told me: you either have a tab or a story. Well, I have a story. Don’t quit.

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Perspective

It will all work out. I’d love to have my tab to accompany the 2/75 Scroll I earned. But if I had gone back when I got to the 17th STS (and I’ve done the calendar math), I would never have met my wife. I would never have Maverick. My life would be different.

Of course, I had no way of knowing any of this. But it’s like that song about thanking God for unanswered prayers. The things that didn’t happen are as important as the things that do. This isn’t a consolation statement—it’s a statement rooted in maturity.

Zooming out earlier would have helped me be better at a lot of things, maybe a little gentler on myself. Not less exacting, but a little more forgiving when I needed it.

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Don’t Lie (To Yourself)

For a lot of my career, I lied to myself about how good I thought I was. I wanted to be seen as “the guy.” Those lies led to shortcuts. Worse, they led to massive holes in my game. I didn’t want to be seen struggling. I didn’t want to be seen as less than.

But it is more admirable to be seen working hard and humbly than to maintain the façade of perfection. I would have been better at everything if I had stopped lying to myself and embraced the work in its true form. I took serious hits to my ego and reputation before that lesson finally landed.

That’s a technique I will discourage Maverick from copying. Lying to yourself is a short-term solution that leads to long-term problems.

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Choose Challenge

Some British guys once shared a note with some Americans: To you all, from us all, for having the guts to try.

Despite my criticisms of myself, I don’t think these lessons would carry weight for Maverick if I hadn’t chosen a hard path. There are subjectively hard things and objectively hard things. Deliberately choosing the hardest thing—facing it, striving for it, failing at it, and continuing anyway—that’s where we discover what we’re made of.

Had I not chosen the path I did, had I not failed and eventually succeeded, I wouldn’t be as settled in myself as a man. Maverick may choose a different path, but the tenets don’t change. There is no substitute for hard work, and nothing great ever came from chasing easy.

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Association

One thing I’m proud of is the quality of the company I’ve kept and my courage not to follow the crowd. Even when I fell short, I didn’t want to be average or around average people.

The best in my field welcomed me into their company. They showed me grace and faith that I would live up to the team’s values. These were men I admired, whose standards became my own. Maverick has countless uncles who surpass me. If character and company are something I can provide him, I’ve done something right.

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Be a Good Teammate

I vividly remember getting selected for the 17th STS. I was the last one in the holding room. Walking into the auditorium, Brig. Gen. Armfield looked me in the eye and said, “Well, I want to hire you.”

I hadn’t controlled CAS in four years. I had made some professional missteps that I thought were career-ending. Yet I scored extremely well throughout the selection and peer review. I was someone they wanted to work with. A good teammate.

I wasn’t the best JTAC (solid B-), but I was loyal. I hope I was brave.

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These aren’t exclusive or original lessons, but they’re mine to teach. I screwed up as a dad today—this morning, actually. Whatever path Maverick chooses (today he wants to be a doctor and a Triceratops), I hope he dares greatly. And when he fails—and he will—I hope I’ve embodied these lessons enough to serve as an example he can build from and ultimately surpass.

Happy Father’s Day, boys. Get your chores done.

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Peyton Knippel is a retired Tactical Air Control Party Specialist (TACP). He spent time as a conventional TACP, TACP Instructor, and 17th Special Tactics Squadron TACP, supporting 2/75 Ranger Regiment. Peyton has eight deployments to Afghanistan going back to Dec 2001 w/ 10th Mountain Division and one deployment to Iraq during the surge. Peyton retired in May of 2020 and lives in Utah with his wife and son. He is involved with veteran transition groups like The Honor Foundation and Elite Meet. One of his primary focus areas in retirement is helping other veterans retire / transition successfully.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.