Article Contributed on: 6/20/2009 3:39:28 PM
Random thoughts on Fathers' Day
(because I'm too lazy to write a "proper" column)
Fathers' Day is a weird time for me. Until a co-worker wished me a "Happy Fathers' Day" yesterday, I didn't think of it as a day for me. Having been a father for 20 years, one would think I'd be used to it by now. But, no. The day is for my Dad, not me.
I was listening to a radio show when one of the hosts began to complain about "bad" fathers' day gifts. I almost called-in. What the hell could possibly be bad about a man's child giving, or making, a gift for Dad? Then, there was an ad for an electronics store that said something about being tired of "ties, socks and macaroni art." It went on to say that the best Fathers' Day gifts cost a lot of money and obviously, come from their store.
I say, "Screw you!" I treasure the scribbled pictures and "art" projects from the first grade. If I want a big-screen, hi-def tv, I'll buy it myself! Fathers' Day is supposed to celebrate fatherhood, right? (Okay, it's also there to make money for the card companies)
My father used to watch the news every night when I was growing up. Why do I remember this? Because he watched the news, drinking a cup of instant coffee (that was probably worse then than it is now) that I made for him. It was a big deal for me. I would boil the water, pour it into his favorite mug and add the Nescafe', Taster's Choice, or whatever had been on sale the week before. (I can see that mug today: ceramic, light tan on the outside, green inside) Then, we'd both dunk a Ginger-Snap into it and watch the news. Dad has a big screen tv now. I wonder what's more important to him. The tv, or the memories of us sharing a ginger snap dunked in some God-awful instant coffee? Think I know the answer.
I heard a conversation about the "Best Fathers' Day Gifts," and again, I was disappointed. They talked of fishing poles, golf clubs and sports tickets. Perhaps I'm out-of-touch, but I don't know of any ten-year-old kids with the scratch to buy that stuff. But I know of kids who take shop and art class in school. I know that my kids have hundreds of crayons and reams of paper.
I also remember a plastic, hand-painted model of a fish that hung on my father's basement wall for at least 25 years. It was there from the day one of his kids gave it to him, until he moved from that house. Nearby, was the crudely cut, wooden K-O-L-T-Z, that one of us made in shop class. (KOLTZ was something my Dad made-up for the then, Baltimore Colts) I ask, again: what means more to the old-man today? The tv, or the fish and K-O-L-T-Z?
Anybody who complains about a Fathers' Day gift is cordially invited to my house, where I will happily punch him in the mouth. Then, I'll turn to his kid, hand him or her a piece of paper and tell 'em to finger-paint a nice picture . . . just dip the little finger in the blood dripping from your ungrateful Daddy's upper-lip.
One of my favorite Fathers' Day memories (there are many) happened at Coors Field. I was recently divorced and had taken my boys to the ball game for Fathers' Day. There we were, sitting in the Rockpile on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, when my boy looked at me and said, "Happy Fathers' Day, Dad!" He didn't buy the tickets. He didn't drive to the stadium, pay for parking or buy the hot dogs and Cokes. But he made my day with that simple statement. Because he meant it. This year marks his first Fathers' Day as a Daddy. (Happy Fathers' Day, Brooks!)
Maybe I'm wrong, but I thought Fathers' Day was a day about fatherhood. What do expensive gifts and fancy, store-bought cards have to do with that? I guess I celebrate Fathers' Day every day. When I leave for work in the morning, I carry-on a routine that my father probably learned from his father . . .
Quietly, I open the door to the girls' room. I silently blow them a kiss, thank God for my beautiful darlings and move to Marty's room. There, I don't have to open the door because he's already opened it. After we tuck him in, he sneakily (he thinks he's getting away with something) opens his bedroom door. He wants so badly for the cat to choose his bed. I peek in, and usually, he's sleeping, wrapped in the sheet. He must be a restless sleeper. Sometimes, his bed is empty. I walk toward the living room, and sometimes, there's Marty, watching Nickelodeon. I tussle his hair, punch him lightly on the shoulder and tell him to have a good day. Without turning his eyes from the tv (not a big screen) he'll reply, "You, too, Dad."
When I back out of the garage, I wave toward the picture window by the tv. Sometimes, if he's up, there's Marty, waving back at me. Once in awhile, Malia's there, too. If she's awake when Marty awakes, he'll get her out of her crib, so she can watch tv with him.
Gifts? I get them every day. I enjoy them every night, when I crawl from the girls' room to Marty's bed with Marty and Malia on my back, "riding the horsie." Malia, from my back, turns off the light in her room, rides to Marty's room where she climbs onto the bed, so she can reach the switch to turn off Marty's light. Then, I tuck Marty in, hand Malia to her beautiful Mommy, who will cuddle Malia for a few minutes while Daddy sneaks out back for a whiskey and cigar.
While Jenny lays Malia down, I'm out back, enjoying a cigar and thanking God for my wonderful life. Then, cigar done, whiskey gone, I creep down the hall, check on my darlings, and put on my pee-jays, thanking God, once again, for this life He's seen fit to provide me. If I'm doing anything right today, it's because my own father and God, conspired to make it so. Hope I don't let Them down.
Happy Fathers' Day to Daddies everywhere!
Thanks, Dad.
Every day is Fathers' Day.