This isn’t exactly a Father’s Day post. It’s a bit too messy for that. But then, love is messy.
I finally figured out my dad loved me. (Why are guys’ relationship with their dads so complicated?) It wasn’t when I wanted to find out—twenty years after my dad died–but, hey, better late than never, right?
Still, if I could have done it any other way…
My wife and I were kissing our kids goodnight after twenty minutes of their diddling around: drinks of water, bathroom runs, the clearing of real and imaginary obstacles: glow-in-the-dark sneakers, dragon poop (don’t ask). They were finally in bed.
I began the benedictions. For Beth it was, “I love you more than insert-increasingly-huge-object here.” At the moment it was “the Milky Way.” For Mandy it was, “I’ll never stop loving you.” Only lately she’d started cutting me off with, “Yeah, I know, Dad.” I needed a new line.
Finally, Trudy and I did our own bedtime rituals, hit the lights, and assumed spoon drawer…
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