Father's Day

I stood on the deck with my coffee a few minutes ago and admired the sunshine pouring through the trees in perfect little rays on a perfectly beautiful Sunday morning.  Father's Day.

What John wanted this Father's Day:  A shovel.  And to ride his motorcycle.  He's getting both.  And he deserves much, much more.

As he left before the kids woke, I asked where he would be going, just so I would know.  From the sounds of it, we will see him a few hours from now.  He has said to me that riding the motorcycle is therapeutic, and I get what he's saying.  And we all need something like that.  And he deserves to be able to ride through the sunshine and crisp air on this Father's Day, for as long as he wants to.

The saying has been printed on millions of Father's Day cards: Anyone can be a father; it takes a special man to be a Dad.  I am blessed with a husband and a father who are both tremendous dads. 

Maybe it is because the spectrum of acceptable abilities and expectations in the dad kingdom is far wider than that in the mom kingdom (think: not once changing a diaper, and I actually know a dad of two children who has never done so, versus volunteering to stay home with a sick nine-month-old and changing the three-year-old's puked on sheets in the middle of the night, for example), but dads have unique qualities about them.  And the relationships with them are something special, in a not-necessarily-better, but definitely-different-than-mom kind of way.

I love my memories with my dad.  I remember, as a young girl, decorating his head with many different barrettes and ponytails as he sat very still.  I remember riding on the back of his motorcycle.  I remember taking rides in the wagon behind the tractor and him going sideways on the steep hill so the wagon would tip and we kids would roll down the hill laughing.  I remember playing football in the yard, and washing cars, and helping remodel the bathroom (and taking video a la "This Old House").  I remember being on his shoulders playing chicken in the pool.  I remember him getting up at 3:30 for work, coming home for dinner, making "his calls," playing with us, and him "resting his eyes" while we all hung out in the living room.  I remember him resting my back, which I now do to my children, and like it did to me, the soft back and forth grazing of the fingertips on their back puts them in a trance.  I remember my dad not-so-discretely changing the channel on the radio station when a condom commercial came on.  I remember the feeling of knowing my dad was proud of me.  I remember that my dad didn't look up as he walked me down the aisle, and that dancing our dance at my wedding was even more emotional. I remember my dad coming to visit me at the hospital when Cortlan was born.

I watch as John makes memories with my children and I think about how special dads are, and how lucky that my kids are to have John as a dad.  I watch as Cortlan "helps" him assemble a shelf.  I beam as Everly and he head out for a father-daughter dinner, even if it is only to Chick-fil-a.  I love that he works so hard, and changes diapers, and helps give baths, and vacuums, and doesn't need me to write down instructions when I leave for a girls' night or head to aerobics, and so much more.  And I love that he loves spending time with his kids.

There is no doubt that dads are special.  I know that this day isn't the easiest for John, as his dad passed away in 2001.  But I know that he has many fond memories of his dad, too, like the one he was telling me yesterday of his dad pedaling like crazy as he tried, and succeeded, to start an old moped in John's youth. 

This morning, John came into the kitchen and turned on the lights over the breakfast bar.  The switch was met with the distinct pop of one of the three bulbs burning out.  After a silent pause, John said, "You know what my mom would say."  The thought registered.  After John's dad had passed away, him mom had many instances of weird things happening with the lights in her house, and the presence of his dad in those moments was palpable to her.  We had not personally experienced it before,and it may just be coincidence, but I said to John, "Maybe there is something to it."  He said, "Yeah.  Maybe."

And then, "Thanks, Dad.  Happy Father's Day."

Happy Father's Day. 
Thanks, Dads.