That being said, the day itself has been bittersweet for almost as long as I can remember. A number of things contribute to that mixture, ranging from the... "difficult" relationship between Dad and me from adolescence until just before he died in February of 2009 to my own unrealized dream of being a dad. But despite the decidedly-mixed emotions I experience on Father's Day, I would never want anyone to think I disapproved of the day or its meaning.
Dad
Since Dad died, the day has had an added taste of bitter (and of sweet): bitter because he isn't here any more and sweet because he still lives in my memory.
No one is perfect, but when I was young my dad seemed perfect to me. I remember him playing with me in the snow when I was five years old, and making a marvelous fool of himself in a school talent show the same year. I remember fishing trips; getting up at some ridiculously early hour and riding down to Ventura with a boat following the truck all the way. I remember feeling safe and empowered and loved.
I put my poor dad through more than a fair share of anxiety, too. There was the time I fell against the sheet metal dashboard of his surplus mail truck: the sharp edge of the dash gashed open my forehead. Like any scalp wound, this one bled profusely, and the shock and pain of it caused my eyes to glaze over. When Dad looked over to see how I was, he thought I was dead. And there was the time when I knocked myself out goofing off on a boat launch dock at Ventura Harbor; I'm sure Dad had that "What if?" moment: "What if he'd rolled off the dock into the water? What if he'd been caught between the boat and the dock? What if..."
Then, just before I reached adolescence, Dad had a heart attack. After he recovered, he seemed different to me; more distant, sterner, less playful. In retrospect, and based on what Mom and other of his age peers have said, I think he pushed his family away after the heart attack because he thought his death was imminent. He was trying to prepare us to deal with his loss. From my perspective, he seemed demanding and unforgiving, expecting me to just get it right. I think he wanted me, as the oldest, to be ready to be "the man of the house" when he died.
I was too young to understand. All I really knew was that Dad wasn't the same any more; didn't play like he used to, was more serious and sober, was different. And I mourned then: it felt like I'd lost my dad, even though I saw him every day.
Dad didn't know that; I've always been pretty reserved, and once he changed I was even more reserved around him. And it may not have occurred to him that there was a problem that needed addressing; he sincerely believed he was not long for this earth, and the problem would resolve itself. We butted heads, a lot, because I resented the change and because I didn't want to be what he seemed to want me to be and because—I have to face it—we were a lot alike: intelligent, stubborn, independent, determined.
Of course the joke was on him... he lived more than 40 years after that heart attack. And gradually, as he came to terms with the idea that maybe he wasn't going to die just yet, the funny, sarcastic, playful, delightful man he really was resurfaced. The birth of his granddaughter—my niece Madison—catalyzed... I sometimes think of it as a kind of resurrection.
And it was good to have him back.
Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.
Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.
I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.
Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.
I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.
That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.
Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.
And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.
I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.
So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.
I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.
But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.
And it was good to have him back.
Dad's motives were pure. He was doing the best he knew how to take care of the family he loved so much. And despite our conflicts and disagreements, I never stopped loving him, and I never doubted he loved me. He didn't always show it (and neither did I), but I think we both knew.
Still, we never actually reconciled until he got sick. I was living in his house—I'd sold my mobile home, and the deal for my new house hadn't closed yet—and for a while at least, I had time to spend with him. We didn't talk much, but we spent time together. Companionable time. Time just to be father and son. And I had the honor and privilege of helping care for him as cancer ravaged him. I had the privilege of being with him when he died. I got to say goodbye.
I can't tell you how important it was that I got to say goodbye. The time I had with Dad in the weeks before his death and the opportunity I had to say goodbye before he died, let me feel like he and I finally resolved our differences. It was among the finest gifts he ever gave me, with my life and my home growing up and my extended family and many wonderful memories.
Now, I miss him. Not more than anyone else does, but I miss him. That's one of the spices that flavor my emotions on Father's Day; I miss my dad.
Me
The other main spice is my unrealized dream of being a dad.I can't remember the first time I dreamed of being a dad. I know I was pretty young—not older than 19 or 20, and maybe even younger—and from that first imagining, it has been a constant in my life. I love kids (truth of the matter is, I love just about everyone, but I especially love kids). Whether smelly infants or silly 'tweens or surly teenagers or whatever, I love 'em.
That isn't to say they can't annoy and aggravate me—they absolutely can—but even in those moments I'm committed to them and interested in their well-being. I find them irresistible and amazing and delightful. Even when I was myself a surly teenager, I still enjoyed being around kids younger than me; I don't remember ever being "too cool" for kids.
Because fatherhood was a dream for me (and is; this has never changed), I actually and deliberately worked to make myself better "Dad" material. I paid attention to what the dads I knew did. I paid attention to what kids responded to. I did what "Dadding" I could; when my cousins or their kids were around, I played at being dad to them as best I was able. And I looked forward to that day, surely imminent, when I'd get to be a dad in fact; when I and my (hypothetical) partner would begin raising a family.
And it kept not happening. There were lots of reasons why, most beginning and ending with the personal qualities that made it difficult for me to get into a relationship that might lead in that direction.
I am an introvert (see 10 Myths About Introverts for some insights). That can be an obstacle. I also suffer from craptastic self-esteem and precious little self-confidence (though I'm making progress dealing with those: intellectually, I get it, but emotionally, not yet). I'm shy, too. It takes a pretty special woman to get past all these barriers and overcome my defenses to the point where she can see that I'm worth it. And all that overcoming takes time... understandably, women generally find someone who doesn't make it so difficult.
So here I am, *mumble* years old, and still no partner and no kids. I haven't given up hope—I am optimistic despite all the reasons I have not to be—but here I am. I'm surrounded by great dads with great kids and I want to count myself among their number... but I'm not a member of the club.
I do not begrudge fathers their honors on Father's Day (or any other day). Far from it. I envy fathers on Father's Day (and pretty much every other day). I honor the spirit of Father's Day, and in my heart I celebrate it.
But I can't not taste the bitter mixed in with the sweet.
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