Today marks the 13th year that I have spent celebrating Father's Day in a leading role. 13 years in the evolution in my own sense of connection to my children, my own father, and in a broader sense, to world around me, filled with billions of other fathers and children on journeys of their own.
As some of my historical writings reveal, for the first few years of their lives, Father's Day for me was a retreat. A break. An escape. It was about getting away from the kids for the day, not being with them. Yet over the course of those years, that changed. Or I changed, as have many things that play into my perception of the role and responsibility of being a parent.
As most parents would likely concur, I didn’t realize I had the capacity to love as deeply as I do when it comes to my kids. Both of them have been an incredibly enriching experience in my life, more so then I could have imagined possible, and far more taxing on my limited ability to handle chaos and contention then I expected. Which is likely why I drug my feet for as long as I had.
At 13, I had little or no real awareness of the fact that my parents were anything more then just that. My parents. Although I had “heard stories of” events preceding my birth, in my limited scope of awareness, their lives, their complete existence, really didn’t start until my birth. Everything beforehand was insignificant filler, inconsequent blurry sepia toned flashbacks without depth or context to anything other then being the path to the end goal of managing my upbringing.
At 13, I not only had marketing driven reminders, I had full collaborate assistance from the other parent during the weeks preceding a Mothers or Father’s Day. We were told it was coming, we were taken to the store, given a budget, pointed to possible cards and the routine ‘dad’ gifts available at the time in the nearby mall. We’d awaken, take part in the obligatory ceremonial breakfast preparation, gift presentation, responsive hug…. and the day pretty much opened up to the usual routine of going out and about with friends like any other weekend.
At 13, I would not expect either of my own children to have a substantial concept or attachment to the day, yet I’ve been routinely pleasantly surprise but the effort my daughter’s put forth. She’s consistently put her heart into the day. Her gift is typically hand made, hand painted, or hand written, genuine and sincere. While on the other hand, as it might apply to any 13yr old boy, my son’s efforts are typically less thought through, and closer to the efforts I myself made, at 13 years of age, before heading out the door to go on about my day with my assorted peers.
Only this time, the ‘peers’ are ‘piers’, and he’s spent the day, and yesterday, volunteering his time at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, working with the “Days of Discovery” foundation, providing severely disabled children with the change to experience scuba diving in their outer bay pool. I dropped him off yesterday morning, and as of 10.30pm, haven’t heard a word from him. No response to a couple of ‘have a great day’ texts. No calls. No cards or gifts or emojis. Nada. And I’m totally fine with that. He’s right on track.
Meanwhile, my daughter deftly added his name to her project, a hand painted mini-tool-tote designed to hold 6 bottles of beer. Complete with a bottle opener. For the dad that has everything. And it’s a blast to have on hand. I fully plan to use it when I have an event at which I’ll provide the beer. And that’s fine too.
SO this year, my daughter and I had a full day of 1:1 time. We went for coffee/juice at the Great Bear, rollerbladed in Golden Gate Park. Saw “Cars 3”. Had dinner at Andale. Watch a few riveting episodes of “Smallville”. Jennifer joined us on a quick run to snag her some summer shorts, we lingered about the house a bit, and before we took a leisurely mountain drive listening to “Daughtry” (her choice, and apropos, too) I read to her, aloud, my 6/22/2011 blog post titled “Father’s Day Memories”. She laughed, smiled, and lovingly hugged me at the end, because it’s not a story I can read without tearing up. Or without needing a hug from my daughter, too.It was a full and fulfilling day. Along with all of my daughter’s attentive efforts and interest in doing the things I wanted to do with her, one of the rewarding parts of the day is knowing that the freedom and opportunities being afforded my son this weekend will be more enriching for him down the road then being constrained to a forced breakfast, card, and gift giving exercise.
That’ll come in time, as it did for me too. But for now, he’s 13. He’s totally, wonderfully, 13.