Sunday, June 17, 2012

On Father's Day

My brother once said, "Let's face it. My dad was a scalawag."

Truer words have never been spoken. I, myself, would have said 'scallywag' but that's a choice of personal style.

We rarely saw Daddy and, when we did, pretty much everything was about him.

Did that mean we didn't love him? No. It mostly just meant every hope we ever had was tinged with the fear of disappointment. In those all-important formative years, my mind generalized his lack of dependability, causing it to color all my experiences.

I'm all grown up now. Master of my little domain. And still afraid to genuinely, truly, with all my heart, put my faith in anyone.

The most difficult times for me are the ones when I fear I've let down my children.

My husband didn't always understand that. He does now... at least, a little bit.

He used to be a scallywag. How did I let myself end up with one of those? I'm not really sure. Maybe I subconsciously thought it was the best I could do. And at least, when you know they're scallywags from the get-go, you don't get disappointed. There are all kinds of scientific studies on why girls with bad fathers grow up to be women with bad husbands, so my behavior at least can be statistically explained.

We've been married more than a decade now and something amazing happened along the way. My husband developed qualities I never thought I'd see in him.

Here's the truth, as difficult as it is for me to comprehend, much less outwardly express: The man is not a scallywag.

He can drive me crazy as few other people ever could. On any given day, he'll get on my nerves a half-dozen times. But, even as I grit my teeth, I know he's only getting on my nerves because he's there to do it.

When it comes to our children, he made the internal commitment, at some point along the way, to be engaged. And he's kept that commitment.

He's been there for last-minute white-shirt-needed-before-tonight's-chorus-concert excursions. He's frequently hunted and gathered at the grocery store and thrown together something edible and, occasionally, even tasty. He's done laundry. He doesn't hang or fold, so it all ends up wrinkly, but at least it's clean. He's hugged away tears and doctored scraped knees. He's taken little ones to school and gotten them home. He's sat through parent-teacher conferences and doctor appointments and sometimes even evidenced good sense. He's built a 3D topographical map of the state and got a B on it. He's played Simon during our American Idol rounds on long car drives. He's thrown steaks on the grill and lunch money into backpacks. He's dug holes so the children could bury beloved pets.

Granted, he's sometimes slow to act. He waits to see if I'll get there first. And he punctuates most of his activities with words I'd prefer the children not mimic. But, all in all, he's not so bad. And he could be much, much worse.

When my children look back on their shared childhood, he will be as much a part of their memories as I will. Because he cares enough to be there.

I'm doing what I can to ensure he has a good Father's Day. But he won't be expecting too much. Because he knows what all good fathers have figured out. Every day is Children's Day.

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