His Father’s Eyes

What happens when an interface designer decides he’s ready to be a father?

Ten years ago this April was the first time I saw him. His eyes were shut. He wasn’t breathing. His skin was a palish blue. They rushed him away. His mother, exhausted, looked up at me with desperate eyes. “Will he be alright?” she asked. “I don’t know, Love.” was all I could offer.

I’m consumed by digital interfaces and have been for 15 years or more. A daily user, devoted student and designer of them. I’ve catalogued mental volumes of articles and opinions of the success and failure of every new one I’ve seen. I’ve hung on every word of adoration and vitriol for their novelty and each one’s potential to alter the trajectory of my career. I’ve spent countless days dreaming up my own new interaction models and nights trying to code them into reality.

My players and pundits don’t make Sportscenter. The nearby bars and local legends remain unexplored. When I moved to The Triangle, people said that I’d have to pick between Duke or UNC immediately. I’m four years in and haven’t given it a thought. I’ve been working and building toward something, but nothing has materialized. The dots never seem to connect.

We were watching a perfect heart rate minutes before, but now a weeping doctor hunched at my wife’s feet. With elbows on the gurney and head in her hands, she sobs, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The Doctor wasn’t supposed to be necessary. The midwife had everything under control. Where did they take him? Was I a father or not? I was so ready to be a father. Could I go in there?

Next door, the nurses plead, “You gotta breathe, baby.” Nothing. I joined in, “Oliver. I’m your daddy. You gotta breathe for me. Let me hear your cry. Let me see your eyes.” A gasp. Tiny quivering arms. A wail. Blue skin blushed pink. A flash of blue eyes. My eyes. He had them.

They say a baby’s eye color can change any time before their first birthday. For Oliver, the change was slow and nobody but me took notice. I still hear it all the time: “He has your eyes.” I know better. I sit at the foot of his bed while he fades off to sleep each night. He doesn’t have my eyes. He runs backwards up the slide and stops half way across the monkey bars, defeated. He doesn’t have my eyes. He rocks out to some terrible pop song I’m too indie-rock to appreciate. He doesn’t have my eyes. It’s time he did.

Those nights at his bedside, I could’ve been singing him to sleep. Those days when he was fumbling across the playground, my eyes were elsewhere. They weren’t his.

They were busy reading everything Trent and Frank and Finch wrote. They soaked in everything Ian and Pelle and Keenan designed. They dissected everything David and Doob and Nick coded. When Oliver wanted me to hear this one song, I was too preoccupied contemplating what Biz and Ev and Elon were saying. He didn’t have my full attention.

I’ve learned so much. But was there a purpose? I’ve made websites and interfaces for movies and musicians I love. I’ve collaborated with companies I believe in and people I respect. But I’ve only ever done one thing I’m eager to show my grandkids one day. I wish I had done more with the time I’ve had.

Then again.

Maybe all that time wasn’t lost. Maybe it wasn’t wasted. What if I applied all that knowledge of interfaces and apps and startups that I’ve gleaned from others? What if I put into practice the lessons I’ve learned by trying and failing? What if I took all that and made something for the two of us? What if I ignored all the chatter and focused on combining my two favorite jobs—being a father and being a designer into one? What would that look like? What if my creative energy, time away from my family and my eyes, blue like his, had a focus? What if I focused them on making the most of this brief window of time we have together? What about the time I have left with my own father? Could I create a platform with interfaces that, instead of distracting me, make the short time we share on Earth more magical?

If I used my skills to empower busy fathers to stay connected with their current and future sons and daughters, would anybody use it? Could I make a living doing it?

Oliver and I are working out the answers. We’ll check back when we have some.They were reading everything Trent and Frank and Finch wrote, soaking up everything Ian and Pelle and Keenan designed, dissecting everything David and Doob and Nick coded. When Oliver wanted me to hear this one song, I was often too preoccupied contemplating what Biz and Ev and Elon were saying to give him my full attention. I’ve learned so much, but was there a purpose? I’ve made websites and interfaces for movies and musicians I love and companies I believe in with people I respect but I’ve only ever done one thing I’ll be truly proud to show my grandkids one day. I wish I had done more with the time I’ve had.

Then again.

Maybe all that time wasn’t lost. Maybe it wasn’t wasted. What if I took all that knowledge of interfaces and apps and startups that I’ve gleaned from others and from trying and failing and obsessing for the first 10 years of my son’s life and made something for the two of us? What if I ignored all the iOS7 chatter and focused on combining my two favorite jobs—being a father and being a designer into one? What would that look like? What if my creative energy, time away from my family and my eyes, blue just like his, was focused on making the most of this brief window of time we have together? What about the time I have left with my own father? Could I create a platform with interfaces that make the short time we share on Earth more magical? Doesn’t an app that empowers busy fathers to stay connected with their current and future sons and daughters belong in the App Store?

Oliver and I are working out the answers. We’ll check back when we have some.

Update 10/21/14:
We are officially building Future Father and we would love if you’d join us in making the most of our short time together. http://futurefather.co