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Almost everyone has heard of the ‘mom’ friend; Buzzfeed has multiple articles identifying their common traits. Reliable, over-prepared, and a worry-wart, mom friends are some of the only rational and responsible people within a group, reminding us all to drink water and nursing us back from the brink when we’re sick. But what about another group archetype: the dad friend?
According to slang capstone Urban Dictionary, a dad friend is “a friend similar to the mom friend… typically more fun and gives meaningful advice in most situations. Won't always be the nicest but is still a friend that cares deeply about you.” This description can still be fleshed out—dad friends are separate entities from mom friends and should be treated as such.
So, what entails being a dad friend? Well, let’s start with how to spot one out in the wild. Dad friends normally maintain a similar attire to traditional dads: Hawaiian shirts, cargo shorts (the more pockets the better), baggy sweaters, baseball caps, large sunglasses, socks with sandals, and unique ties. Comfort over fashion is the modus operandi of a dad friend.
But it’s not just looks—a dad friend isn’t skin deep. It’s the character that drives the choices of the clothing. Dad friends are often seen cheering on sports teams, napping anywhere, or participating in fatherly rites of passage including fishing, fixing cars, or grilling. Dad friends also participate in a form of humor known colloquially as dad jokes: most of the time, the punchline involves, “Hello __________, I’m dad.” They then proceed to chuckle to themselves for extended periods of time. But above all: dad friends are always there for advice, whether you want it or not. They’ll support you wholeheartedly, even if they’re just along for the ride.
The purpose of the Wake is to provide a forum in which students can voice their opinions. Opinions expressed in the magazine are not representative of the publication or University of Minnesota as a whole.
A friend similar to the mom friend . A dad friend is typically more fun and gives meaningful advice in most situations. Won't always be the nicest, but is still a friend that cares deeply about you.
Dillon really is a dad friend, even if him and the mom friend don't get along.
The friend of the family that is usually the daughters first crush in her younger years. The friend of the family the daughter thinks of her first older male encounter because he is the first one to pay her attention. The trusted friend eying your daughter.
My dads friend is hot, he pays attention to me and gets me not like the boys and he's not like my dad , he's cool. I noticed your dads friend looking at you, I think he likes you
a friend/other persons dad that you enjoy bonding with.
chaylor's dad is my dad friend, we enjoy watching
foot tenis over the weekends .
Someone possibly an uncle or just a friend of your father's that used the title of " your Dad's friend " as leverage to sexually molest you.
"Don't worry , I'm your Dad's friend" Talk to your real/fake uncle "I'm your Dad's friend, you have to listen to me"
A commonly used excuse to leave a social situation for a few minutes to masturbate
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What I wish my friends had said to me after my mom died
By
Chelsea Gray
Nov 20, 2018, 11:30am EST
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It’s hard to know what to say to a friend who is grieving. Here’s what you should keep in mind.
First-person essays and interviews with unique perspectives on complicated issues.
This is the question I heard relentlessly from friends, co-workers, and acquaintances after my mom died. Most of the time, I wanted to respond with “I have zero fucking clue.”
Some moments, I felt surprisingly okay. Some moments, I worried that this overwhelming feeling of grief would never go away. Some moments I was worried it would. Some moments I didn’t want to talk about it, others I wanted to talk about nothing else. Explaining all that felt impossible — it still does.
My mom passed away two years ago. The grief was unimaginable. Nothing can prepare you for what it will feel like, but one aspect I was particularly surprised by was just how many uncomfortable, awkward, and sometimes straight up offensive conversations I would have with the people in my life after it happened. These were people who wanted to be there for me or say the right thing, but didn’t know how to do it.
I don’t blame them. Our culture doesn’t do a great job with processing death. It’s one of the most jarring experiences to go through whether you’re experiencing loss yourself or watching someone you love go through the grieving process. None of it is easy. But we can’t avoid it.
When I found out my mom was dying, I tried to scrape up any vision of what grief might look like. I watched movies, read about grief, tried to prepare myself, as if grief was some kind of final I could cram for the night before. It didn’t work, of course. Right after my Mom died, I was sad, angry, frustrated, nostalgic, strangely thankful, then sad, then angry again, you name it — I felt it all, usually all within one day.
This whirlwind of emotions made it so hard to interact with my friends as I normally would. I’m sure it was difficult for them, too. How were they supposed to help me if I wasn’t sure what kind of help I needed from them in the first place?
I often found myself giving them passive answers to pacify their questions: I felt like they didn’t really want to hear how I was really doing. I can recall multiple conversations generally starting like this:
“Actually, I’m having a hard time. I’m not sure how I’m feeling most of the time. I keep thinking about the moments leading up to what happened. It all feels very surreal. ”
And then generally, a lot of people in my life would response with variations of these answers:
“Oh … I’m sorry for your loss,” followed by uncomfortable bouts of silence. Or: “That is just so sad. I can’t imagine what that would be like for me,” followed by a quick change in subject.
These kinds of answers made me feel like they just wanted to hear that I was doing okay, and that anything else was too much for them to get into.
But as I moved farther away from the day my mom died, I found myself wanting to talk about my experience with grief, not to mention her , constantly. I also noticed that this candid conversation I craved also continued to make people around me uncomfortable. It felt like any time I’d voluntarily bring things up, people would change the subject. Or they’d shift the conversation to something less “depressing.”
I understood what they were doing, but it wasn’t what I wanted. What does it mean if the thing that helped me grieve my mother made the people closest to me uncomfortable? What did that mean for me and my process — and not to mention, my relationship with these people?
So for a while, I decided to remain frustrated and confused. It felt like I couldn’t be myself around some of my closest friends. The only thing I really wanted was to talk about my grief, but I felt that I had to censor myself. I started saying less about my mom. I started being less blunt about how I was feeling. It was just easier that way.
Then, my frustration turned into flat-out anger. I was the one in pain — why did I have to be the one to accommodate everyone else’s feelings? It felt selfish to think like this, but it was the truth. Then, in the midst of this less-than-admirable rage stage of my grieving process, something strange happened.
One of my closest friends’ father died about a year and a half after my mom. I thought for sure that I’d know exactly what to say, what to do, right off the bat. I knew not to ask how she was doing. I knew not to beat around the bush and pretend like everything was okay.
But I felt totally overwhelmed. I was scared I would say the wrong thing or that’d I’d cause her more pain. So I worried, I hesitated, and when I finally spoke up, I did just as my friends did — I beat around the bush.
I think I know the reason why people clam up when attempting to console a friend who is grieving: shame. We live in a world where people are consistently afraid of feeling shame — so many of us make life choices to avoid the feeling at all costs. Being told that you said the wrong thing — that you hurt someone or said something awkward — totally blows.
And when we’re trying to comfort a grieving loved one, we’re so worried about saying the wrong thing and feeling that dreaded shame that we sometimes decide it’s just easier not to say anything at all.
But we, as friends and loved ones, can do better. Far worse than shame is grieving a loved one and having a friend avoid speaking up for the sake of avoiding their own discomfort. I promise you that’s not what your grieving friend wants. If you aren’t sure what to say — hell, most of us who are grieving don’t know what we want you to say either — tell them that.
I decided to take my own advice when comforting my friend who lost her father. It felt so difficult at first, but once I broke past the initial hesitation, the conversation between us completely opened up and went something like this:
“This might be a weird thing to say, but when my mom died, for whatever reason I really wanted to talk about what happened in detail. It helped me process and made things feel less surreal. So, if there is ever a detail that you feel you can’t get out of your head and you want to share it, please share with me.”
That’s when my friend started to open up to me. She told me about how hard it was to talk to people about what she was feeling, and that she often felt she didn’t know how to respond when people checked in because she felt she had to sugarcoat her response. She discussed feeling so isolated in her grief — just as I had in mine. This conversation continued over time, both of us sharing our frustrations and feeling so relieved that we weren’t alone.
Everyone grieves differently, so it’s important to really tune into what your friend needs. If you’re completely unsure of where to even begin, here are a couple of ways to start the conversation with a grieving friend:
I promise you — having these conversations in person is infinitely easier than over a text. This, sometimes, is the easiest way to start the conversation. If you can’t meet in person, call them on the phone. I’m talking to you, fellow millennials.
The biggest piece of advice I can offer is to be honest. And be open-minded to the idea that your friend’s world has completely changed. Grief isn’t finite; you don’t “go through” grief. It’s a spectrum of experiences that continue throu
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