Since I published a post in honor of mothers for Mother’s Day, I thought I should give equal recognition to dads in honor of Fathers’ Day. I’m not sure what to write about dads though because, as a mother, my experience with fatherhood is limited. My parents divorced when I was seven and after the first couple of years where he was diligent about exercising his monthly visitation rights, I have seen my father probably on average of twice annually. I had a step-father from when I was eighteen (thought he wasn’t officially that until I was twenty) until he passed away in 2002. With no intent to disrespect or offend my father, when I think of whom in my life has come the closest to what I understand of the role of “my dad” to be, the only person who seems to fit that characterization is my step-father. I had a great relationship with my step-father; probably due to the fact he had the advantage of coming into my life after I’d struggled through the turbulent adolescent years and was heading off to college—well, for the most part, as I did call him once at 3 a.m. in the dead of winter when the car I was driving wouldn’t start.
Losing Steve left a hole in my immediate family and we talk about our memories with him as a family like he had been there since day one rather than just one decade. When my grandmother died, Steve, who drove semis “over-the-road”, picked me up at midnight at college to drive me home so I could go to the funeral. I went on a couple of short trips with him in his rig. He had better directions than MapQuest and educated us on the dangers of road gators and lot lizards, both potentially deadly in their own way. Though they weren’t his flesh and blood, Steve reveled in my kids, lulling them to sleep on his truckers’ belly when they were babies then playing squirt guns and feeding them fudge for breakfast when they were a little older.
Even though he could be anywhere in the country at any time during the week, he found a way to be there within hours, at the most, of my children’s births. He drove nearly all night to get home to turn around and drive two hours more to the hospital near where my husband and I were living so he could be there when my daughter was born. I have a picture of him and my father-in-law (who would never be accused of being overly physically affectionate), arms around each others’ backs like college buddies, proud of their first granddaughter (grandchild for Steve). My son’s arrival was more short-notice than my daughter’s so Steve was not able to make it back in time to be there for his birth. But he drove all day and came to the hospital to see his grandson, after visiting hours and before he went home.
Other than Steve, the only other person in my life who fits the epitome of “dad”—and not as “my dad”—is my husband. Even though I have no personal experience on which to offer LeRoy fatherly advice, I don’t think it matters much because I think the role of “dad” is much different today than it was a generation ago. My father-in-law was a good dad for the period of time in which he was fathering my husband but as a dad in today’s world’s standards, he would fall short. I require much more out of my husband as a dad than a father a generation ago would even imagine and, to LeRoy’s peril, probably more than a lot of wives require of their husbands today. Unfortunately for him, because I grew up without a traditional “dad” in my life and because of the person I think I turned out to be, I believe that dads are like dishwashers—they are great to have and life would be a hell of a lot harder for mom without them but they aren’t absolutely necessary, it may take more work but the dishes will get just as clean washing them by hand.
I don’t wish to diminish my husband’s role as a father. I know without LeRoy my life would be much more difficult. When the kids were babies, he changed as many diapers and got up in the middle of night as much, if not more, than I did. He still takes care of virtually all of the yard work, laundry and dishes. Even though he swears he hates our cats, he is quicker to clean up their hair balls than me and he cleans the litter boxes, feeds them, and waters them nearly 99% of the time. When company is coming, he pitches in to clean the house. Whenever there is a chore to be done, he jumps up and does it, most of the time without being asked. You may be thinking to yourself that this poor slug is getting a raw deal—and you’re probably right. Though I don’t think I’d tolerate much less, I wonder myself sometimes why in the world he sticks around. I suspect the real reason is that he is a workaholic. He grew up on a farm where life is your work and work is your life; where he wasn’t allowed to sit in front of the TV when there was feces to be excavated and it’s all he knows. And I, being the opportunistic bitch I am, cash in. I, however, tell myself that there must be SOMETHING he gets from me that is good enough to keep him around. (Good cooking, of course; the way through a man’s heart, right?) ;o)
My life is full. I have lead my daughter’s Girl Scout troop for five years, I write, I like to have parties, I walk, I do things with my kids and my mom, my daughter plays violin, my son’s in Cub Scouts, I like to go on vacation and weekend trips, I scrapbook, etc., etc., etc. I’m often asked how I find the time to do all those things, especially after they’ve seen a big project I’ve finished, whether a Girl Scout event, baby shower or whatever. I am very organized and a great time manager but the sole determining factor is LeRoy. I am able to do all the things I do because of what he does that I don’t have to. I’m sure I don’t express it enough but I greatly appreciate that and it is central to my quality of life.
I don’t mean to portray my husband as perfect because he is not perfect. He can be passive with me and sometimes yells too much at the kids. I don’t mean to portray myself as some needy, high-maintenance, diva, either. Even though I know he sometimes feels I don’t do as much as he does and sometimes I think maybe he’s right, I do a lot for my family as well. I take care of all of our finances, planning, shopping, cooking and when he is working his long hours (which is often), I’m it as far as taking care of the kids, taking them where they need to go, staying home if they get sick, etc. Somehow it seems to balance out even if maybe on the surface it doesn’t appear that way. The point is that LeRoy is my partner and though I could successfully raise my kids without him if I had to, I don’t want to. Without him, I could not be me.
If you feel slightly confused about this disjointed blog post—what is she trying to say? What’s the point? Or just a basic, HUH?—you’re not alone. I’m feeling the same way. I guess like a lot of things, fatherhood is full of ambiguity. So just forget about it and have a happy fathers’ day, okay?
