Father's Day

Father’s Day is a weird holiday for me. Not because of any daddy issues I have, but, I mean, being celebrated for being a father is weird. In a lot of ways, me typing this sentence out is the equivalent of what I had to do to become a father. Related: I’m not very good in the bedroom.

Maybe it will feel differently when I’m older, or when my kids are older, ehhh…I don’t know. This is going to make me sound like I’m holier-than-thou or something (so EAT IT, thou), but I feel weird being celebrated, however minimally, for doing something that I wholeheartedly want to do.

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I’ve only ever wanted to be two things: a professional baseball player, and a dad. I mean, I’ve wanted other stuff too - a place to live, to be happy, a hot wife (check/check/CHECK, BABE) – but when anyone ever asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, those have been my answers since I was four. Even now, if someone offered me $50 a day to play for the Toledo Mud Hens, I would probably say yes. 

(PS if anyone representing the Toledo Mud Hens is reading this, I don’t why you’d want anyone who hasn’t played competitive baseball since he was 17, and not coincidentally was not actually good at any facet of baseball other than eating sunflower seeds, but YES I’LL SIGN YOUR CONTRACT. I assume you must have heard about the time I threw an 82-mile per hour fastball one time when I was 17 and then had to ice my arm for a month.)

Obviously, since I’m writing this and not playing long toss with Ronny Paulino, the baseball career didn’t work out. Believe it or not, I conceded this a long time ago. That left me with my other career goal: be a dad. Thankfully, that ended up happening, probably because my ability to hit a curveball has not (yet) been required.

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At the moment, I have two children. Or maybe, my two children have me. I don’t mean that in the sense of “Oh, they’re so lucky to have me because I am THE BEST.” More like, they have me wrapped around their fingers, and have continually tightened that wrap every day since each of them showed up in my life.

(Disclaimer, before I gush about them: if you’ve never wanted to have kids, I totally don’t blame you. They stink all the time, even when they’re clean. They always have snot they want you to wipe away. Simple things, like putting a shirt on, take them 45 effing minutes. I literally have small greasy fingerprints on every single shirt I own. Kids are the best and the worst, and if you don’t want them, no worries.)

But I’ve always wanted to have kids, even when I was a kid. Even in my most desperate teenage moments of wanting a girlfriend – AND THERE WERE MANY; LORD WERE THERE MANY – a teeny, tiny, never-would-have-admitted-it-to-anyone-in-the-entire-world part of me would have to consider whether or not said girl would be someone with whom I’d want to be a parent. I mean, OF COURSE that wasn’t the first thing I was thinking (anyone who’s been a 15-year old boy KNOWS the first thing I was thinking), but it was there.

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Long story short, two smaller versions of my wife and I live with us now. They are the best. My daughter does wonderful things. My son does wonderful things. Everything I hoped being a dad would be is what it actually is, including the part about being so tired I had to institute Movie Night Wednesday (code name: please watch this 90-minute movie so daddy can take an 85-minute nap, and also don’t die while he’s asleep). 

So why do I get anything for getting to do this? Our daughter always insists that I get donuts on any holiday (again, because she is the best), and I will eat the hell out of those donuts on Sunday, but I don’t need them as a gift for getting to live out the role I’ve always wanted.

The absolute best part of my day is walking in the door after work. (Granted, I haven’t won $500 million dollars in the lottery so far in life, so I don’t know if this will ALWAYS be the best part of my day.) I always look in the window before I unlock the front door, and they’re always there, doing something. Sometimes they’re coloring, sometimes they’re doing puzzles or playing with toys. Sometimes my son is already waiting at the window, and when he sees me he starts pounding on the glass like a lunatic.

When I unlock the door (if they haven’t beaten me to it first), I have about 2.3 seconds of prep before I get hug-and-kiss attacked by people who haven’t properly estimated their own strength. Sometimes I get an extra kiss, or in my son’s case, a blow to the head from a cookie sheet (it’s okay, that’s a sanctioned ‘You-Can-Only-Do-This-With-Dad’ activity). After that, I don’t think either of them stops talking to me about anything that pops in their respective heads until they’re finally asleep.

That brief connection is what I hoped fatherhood would be in a nutshell. Obviously, it will change over time (truth: if my 21-year old daughter and 19-year old son are greeting me that excitedly in the future, I will think something is tremendously wrong with them), but it will be replaced by things that are equally perfect.

I don’t need a day telling me that I’m great because I happen to be a father. I need my kids, every day, reminding me that I got what I always wanted.

Happy Father’s Day, my Darling and my Sweet Boy.

(Please still get me those donuts.)

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One other thing: I heard “For the First Time” by John Legend, uh, for the first time, about three weeks ago, and even having never heard it before, I instantly thought of how I felt the first time I held each of my babies. I’m aware it’s about finding a partner (hence the line in the second verse ‘You see through me/Strip off all my clothes), but for me, it’s about twenty-some years of hope and purpose coming together in a tiny person, or two tiny people.

(Also, if we change the meaning of the one questionable line to being metaphorically reborn as a father, then it works. So please take me off your ‘Creepy Weirdo’ list, or at least keep me on there for more legitimate reasons.)

Here it is, if you’re interested. And if you’re not interested in John Legend, I GUESS YOU DON’T LIKE NICE THINGS.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JMfDJ5kzS0