The other night, Hubby gently and casually mentioned that he’d noticed I hadn’t called his dad on Father’s Day.
Key word: gently.
Father’s Day is a sensitive subject to me.
I have to say we never really celebrated Father’s Day in the first place when I was growing up. You can say my family wasn’t very conventional in that respect (heck, we didn’t even call my dad “dad” – we’d just call him by his name) and it didn’t ever seem to be a big deal in our household.
No surprise breakfasts in bed or hand made cards were expected. No bear hugs or back claps required from his kids. Fact is, we knew he loved us, he knew we loved him, we all new what a fantastic dad he was and that was that.
Over the years, I imagine this may have gradually changed somewhat. After all, people change, daughters move to the other side of the world, dads grow older with the years, commercial marketing of the holidays becomes more aggressive…. I even suspect that at some point there was even mention over the phone of panque being made to celebrate Father’s Day one year….
If that was the case, I’m sure my dad appreciated the thought and perhaps even changed his perception of the holiday and its meaning towards the end.
However, I didn’t witness that change and ever since my dad passed away three years ago basically this whole festive occasion has become sort of a black day for me. As much as it sounds selfish, Father’s Day simply isn’t a Happy day for me at all and I guess this is the reason I can’t really bring myself to up and call all the dads I know and wish them something I’m not sincerely feeling myself.
That is not to say I don’t love my FIL (or my uncles, my cousins, my grandfather, my close friends and colleagues and every other paternal figure in my life who I know for a fact are all great dads). Don’t get me wrong, I am very proud of all the fathers I know, I think of them often (not only on Father’s Day) and wish them much love and happiness on this day as well as the rest of the year.
But the fact is that no matter how much I care for these folks (and know they care for me), when Father’s Day comes around the corner, the only person I truly want to call up and chat with is the one that was standing outside our apartment looking pale and weak with fear the afternoon I came home late from 6th grade after I’d absentmindedly lost track of time playing with my friends in a nearby park and forgot to call my parents to let them know I was ok.
.... the one whose white cotton shirts I used to sneak-borrow to wear to high school, instead of the ugly uniform-issued girl blouses with the peter-pan collars we were required to wear (that led to the oversize-trend spreading like wildfire in my school btw, everyone thought it was such a cool look).
.... the one that made pizzas from scratch for us every Sunday and pretended not to notice me eating all the olives instead of getting them ready to be used as toppings as he had entrusted me to do.
.... the one who would listen carefully and patiently to any “weird sound” my car was making and no matter how much I groaned and impatiently complained I was going to be late, would never let me drive off until he was absolutely certain there was nothing wrong with the vehicle.
.... the one that never liked any of the teen boys that hung around with me and instead gave them all dreadful nicknames that used to infuriate me at the time and now make me giggle whenever I remember them.
.... the one that every summer packed us all up in a van, drove 1200 km across the country and set us down on a crystalline blue beach with soft white sand for two weeks of incredible times.
.... the one that told me I shouldn’t worry (or care) about being a Half ‘n Half.
Fned.
Key word: gently.
Father’s Day is a sensitive subject to me.
I have to say we never really celebrated Father’s Day in the first place when I was growing up. You can say my family wasn’t very conventional in that respect (heck, we didn’t even call my dad “dad” – we’d just call him by his name) and it didn’t ever seem to be a big deal in our household.
No surprise breakfasts in bed or hand made cards were expected. No bear hugs or back claps required from his kids. Fact is, we knew he loved us, he knew we loved him, we all new what a fantastic dad he was and that was that.
Over the years, I imagine this may have gradually changed somewhat. After all, people change, daughters move to the other side of the world, dads grow older with the years, commercial marketing of the holidays becomes more aggressive…. I even suspect that at some point there was even mention over the phone of panque being made to celebrate Father’s Day one year….
If that was the case, I’m sure my dad appreciated the thought and perhaps even changed his perception of the holiday and its meaning towards the end.
However, I didn’t witness that change and ever since my dad passed away three years ago basically this whole festive occasion has become sort of a black day for me. As much as it sounds selfish, Father’s Day simply isn’t a Happy day for me at all and I guess this is the reason I can’t really bring myself to up and call all the dads I know and wish them something I’m not sincerely feeling myself.
That is not to say I don’t love my FIL (or my uncles, my cousins, my grandfather, my close friends and colleagues and every other paternal figure in my life who I know for a fact are all great dads). Don’t get me wrong, I am very proud of all the fathers I know, I think of them often (not only on Father’s Day) and wish them much love and happiness on this day as well as the rest of the year.
But the fact is that no matter how much I care for these folks (and know they care for me), when Father’s Day comes around the corner, the only person I truly want to call up and chat with is the one that was standing outside our apartment looking pale and weak with fear the afternoon I came home late from 6th grade after I’d absentmindedly lost track of time playing with my friends in a nearby park and forgot to call my parents to let them know I was ok.
.... the one whose white cotton shirts I used to sneak-borrow to wear to high school, instead of the ugly uniform-issued girl blouses with the peter-pan collars we were required to wear (that led to the oversize-trend spreading like wildfire in my school btw, everyone thought it was such a cool look).
.... the one that made pizzas from scratch for us every Sunday and pretended not to notice me eating all the olives instead of getting them ready to be used as toppings as he had entrusted me to do.
.... the one who would listen carefully and patiently to any “weird sound” my car was making and no matter how much I groaned and impatiently complained I was going to be late, would never let me drive off until he was absolutely certain there was nothing wrong with the vehicle.
.... the one that never liked any of the teen boys that hung around with me and instead gave them all dreadful nicknames that used to infuriate me at the time and now make me giggle whenever I remember them.
.... the one that every summer packed us all up in a van, drove 1200 km across the country and set us down on a crystalline blue beach with soft white sand for two weeks of incredible times.
.... the one that told me I shouldn’t worry (or care) about being a Half ‘n Half.
So to my Father-in-Law and all you Dads out there:
I know you are doing a fantastic job.
I love you and am proud of you.
From the bottom of my heart:
Happy (belated) Father’s Day
and I hope you can understand.
Fned.
3 comments:
ok, now I need a kleenex...your memories are priceless. Sending love and hugs ~
That's the neatest picture. You were 2 days old.
Oh I understand. All I can say is that for me, the sting went out of Mothers' Day after a few years. I hope the same becomes true for you. Sending you a big hug.
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