The Day Of Fathers Or For Fathers Or Something Fatherly Like That
by Richard
Oh, yeah. Today is the day we set aside to honor the family unit.
No, not that unit. Minds. Gutters. Disinvite, people. Disinvite.
What I’m talking about is, of course, Father’s Day. The day we all get together and say, “The who? Oh, yeah, right. That guy. Yeah, we should probably do something for him one of these days. Maybe after a while. Or something.”
Nah, just kidding, really. Of course everyone knows that fatherhood is a respected tradition, full of responsibility and love, providing an emotional anchor to the growing young dudes and dudettes. Or that guy who donated the little wriggly bits.
The perception of how much fathers have or should have to do with raising children changes from culture to culture and from year to year within each group.
I’m just glad we’re living in a culture and a time that allows some men to become the primary caretakers of their children without having (too many) people look at them so as to suggest the fathers in question have not only lost their minds, but also have quit looking for it and don’t want to find it.
I love being a dad.
I love standing with my arms around my wife, known to me as She Who Must Be Amazing To Have Produced At Least Half Of Those Young Dudes, and watching as my sons discover life.
I love being the only man in the room when I go to school functions, or dressing in doctor’s scrubs and wearing a wig to play act as a mom when a pre-school has some mother and child day. That last might be just me. Sorry.
Not going to say I loved changing dirty diapers because I certainly did not. But, looking back on those, I can say that arduous task did at least leave me well prepared for picking up after the leavings of Buzz, the garbage disposal that walks like a dog.
I love seeing the looks in the eyes of my sons when they discover something new that make them laugh, or something that fills them with awe and causes goosebumps to shoot up their spines.
I love hearing my children laugh.
I love thinking about what they’ll make of their lives.
I love seeing a little of myself in their behavior, even if it is the propensity for making really, really bad jokes at inopportune moments.
I love hearing something from them that absolutely could not have come from their mother or from me because that newness, that unique flavor, is who they really are.
I love gently cradling my sons in my arms, shielding them from the chill of the outside world, gently leaning down to kiss the soft fontanelle on top of their heads and knowing they will never remember this moment that means so much to me.
Every single day of my life I get a present. I don’t need a Father’s Day to tell me that.
Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m giving back the presents, you understand. They’re mine now.
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