Father | Son

In much of the competition-based television foisted upon us today, there's a fairly common trope. It's a father or mother doing something like artfully cooking a sea slug or trying to get up Mt. Upchuck-a-rama (I may or may not have that name wrong) in record time for the sole purpose of making their child proud of them. Nine times out of ten, as the footage rolls and the overwrought emotional music is cued, it turns out said child is an infant who would not know if his father was climbing Mt. Whatever or if he was the closet door. So it's pretty safe to say being proud of daddy isn't much of an issue yet.

As the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML will tell you, I don't appreciate these scenes. They're trite, maudlin, and spectacularly lazy. It also usually launches me into an unhinged rant on the nature of parent-child relationships and as her nom de guerre suggests, SML has an unending well of patience with me, but she's done with these rants, so we aren't watching a lot of this type of television together and that's probably for the best.

The Great Mullet Debacle of 2014
Not our finest hour. Let's not
talk about it ever again.

These maudlin scenes have been playing in my mind of late as we are preparing for The RM's wedding just 13 days from today. My involvement in this event has been reserved to paying for stuff sans complaint and taste testing tacos and a next-level dessert for the groom's dinner.  I did nominate myself to create a playlist to add to the ambience of that dinner. For those of you unfamiliar with my iTunes library, it is essentially an extended cry for help consisting of more than 1200 songs that have no discernible rhyme or reason, so this playlist is going to be aces! That said, I've found myself in a mawkish well of my own creation thanks to the lyrics of one song that I added to the list, forgetting that it's about a father's love, as opposed to an unsettling love song between an F-Dude and his F150 as the title would suggest. The chorus of the George Strait song "Love Without End, Amen" goes like this:

Let me tell you a secret about a father's love

A secret that my daddy said was just between us

He said daddies don't just love their children every now and then

It's a love without end, amen

It's a love without end, amen

As I've listened to that song multiple times, more than one tear has fallen from my eyes as I think about this good young man, my son, and the pride I have in him, as well as the unending love I feel. Even during the Great Mullet Debacle of 2014 wherein we experienced a taste of the Seventh Ring of Hell that no parent should have to endure, I've loved this son of mine to the Moon and back, just as I have his sisters.

Holding him after 18 months of not seeing each other

My son, The RM, is now somehow on the precipice of marrying a smart, capable, lovely young woman and starting a completely new phase of life. I can't help but marvel at how this has all played out. Wasn't it just yesterday that I held him in my arms for the first time, still smarting from the fact that I didn't get to finish a burrito because he decided to turn up fast? Wasn't it just yesterday that I held both him and his mother as a doctor set his broken arm (first of three, but who's counting)? Wasn't it just yesterday that we threw our arms around each other in a victory hug in the bleachers at Wrigley at our first Cubs game? Wasn't it just over a year ago when we threw our arms around him as he emerged from behind the Curtain of Incompetence (AKA the TSA) at the Hartford Airport as he returned from his missionary service as a mature young man? I held him for a good long time that day, remembering all the times I held him before and then, as you see from the picture above, I stood back and marveled at my son. I marveled at the man he'd become. I marveled at what the future held for him. I marveled that somehow I had something to do with raising him and his sisters into the good people that they are. (On that point, I need to give credit where credit is due right now: the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML is why my children are who they are. Also, she is a saint.)

In the coming days, he and I will have a few more 'advice' sessions and I'm sure he won't remember a lot of it. I hope he'll remember the good things I've tried to demonstrate as his father and as a husband to his mom. In thirteen days, I'll hold him again as I wrap my arms around him and through my tears, of which there will be many, I'll say 'Congratulations, son,' as he embarks on a new life as a husband. I'll give my new daughter-in-law a hug and say 'He's yours now. Buena suerte!'

Like that cowboy philosopher George Strait said of a father's love for his children, "It's a love without end, amen." I could not agree more.

On Fathers Day

One of my favorite pictures of my three
(I know I've posted this oldie but goodie
before, but as I said, it's one of my favorites!)

It is a wise father that knows his own child.

~ William Shakespeare

My adventure in fatherhood began twenty six years ago with the arrival of Our Lady of Awesome. In fairly short order (not Irish Twin short, but short enough), CAL and TMFKATB joined the mix and it truly has been an adventure ever since.

As with any adventure, there have been tremendous highs (seeing any of your children finding their happy), some challenging lows (heartbreak, daughters right before they turn 13), some moments of panic when you might have gotten lost ("Hi kids, you're in the middle of your critical formative years and guess what? We're moving. Again!"), and even some moments of wondering will this ever end (How many times can we go to the ER in a year with TMFKATB? How long does college last again?). This is an adventure I wouldn't trade for anything, because along the way, I've gotten to know my three children. I've not reached the enlightened wise state that the honorable Mr Shakespeare refers to, but that's the beauty of fatherhood; it is an ongoing thing. As long as they'll let me, I can still be their Dad. You can call me a lot of things (a lot of which are unsuitable for printing here, I know), but the best thing I've been called is Dad. Getting to know my children has been the greatest joy of my life. I strive to be better because of them. My life is better because of them and I hope they've picked up a thing or two from me along the way.

I said my fatherhood adventure began twenty six years ago but I misspoke. It started long before that. It began when I became my late father's first born. Placed into the arms of my mother and father when I was just two days old, I was introduced then and there to the unconditional love of a father.  Just as his love was unending, so was his patience. Trust me when I tell you that we, his three children, worked hard to try it, but he won. His love and patience won. There's a huge lesson there. For me, though, the biggest lesson from my father taught me was his love for my mother. I cannot adequately put into words that love, so my hope is that my children have learned a similar lesson from me - that to love their mother is the greatest gift I could have given them. 

I am in no way a perfect father or husband. "Epically flawed" (not Homer J. Simpson-level flawed, but you get my drift) is probably a more apt description but I've tried and continue to try each day. Being Dad to my three children is a role I relish each day, even though none of three are under our roof anymore. I look forward to trying each and every day to being their Dad. I couldn't ask for anything more.

79

My father died almost five and a half years ago and today, 8 February, marks what would have been his 79th birthday. Recent circumstances have caused memories of my dad to be at the forefront of my mind. It's days like these, birthdays, that the sense of loss is more acute.

It also reminds me that I've been pretty lousy at grieving the loss of my father. According to Swiss psychiatrist Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and her Kubler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief associated with death. The five stages are:

Denial / Anger / Bargaining / Depression / Acceptance

When I recall the events around my dad's death and the ensuing nearly six years, it seems to me that per the model, I skipped the first four stages and went directly, in much the same you do when playing the world's most arduous board game, Monopoly, bypassing 'go' and going directly to jail, to 'Acceptance.' I don't think I had much of a choice. There wasn't time for the first four stages when it happened and since then, acceptance seemed to be the only option.

To be sure, part of that acceptance comes with my faith and belief in a plan for us after this life. That sense of surety I have is, for me a source of great comfort but today, and I can't quite put my finger on it, I'm just a bit out of sorts over this grieving process. I can't help but wonder that because I wasn't prostrate with grief or anger at the time that I haven't honored my father's life or memory. I don't think so but it's bothering me just a little. I'm not saying that I should have leapt on his coffin as it descended (think the burial scene in Jonathan Demme's delightful Married to the Mob). That would have been ridiculous but I still can't help but wonder if I've grieved appropriately?

Loss and how we handle it is a deeply personal thing. Yet, and I've pointed this out before, it is not lost on me that I am ironically making it a public thing by writing about it in this forum. I know for others, opening up a raw nerve in a silly blog like this would be unthinkable. For me, though, this works.

Sure, I wish my dad was still here to be celebrating his 79th. Who knows? Maybe we'd have been by his side today. If nothing else, we would have picked up the phone and talked. I'm glad I was able to wish him a happy birthday on his last. He was a good, patient man. I take great comfort in that patience.I feel like he's being patient with me to this day as I figure out this grieving process. For that, I am grateful.