Happy Father's Day For Me

I breezed past the card aisles and stores this year without feeling the pull. My father, grandfathers, and the uncles and friends who were like fathers to me are all gone. My daughters are adults and on their own, at least as far as greeting cards are concerned. Finally, I don't need to find the perfect verse on a card that my father will never see, the way I did for years after his death.

This year, free of traditions and obligations, my Father's Day gift is to me. I will wrap myself in appreciation, tie on streamers of love, and slip into memories of the men who have given me the gift of life - my father and the fathers of my children and grandchildren. I am forever grateful to these men for the greatest moments in my life, and for contributing to who I am and how I remember life.

I will condense the tomes my father deserves into a few sentences. In the thirty-five years I shared with this man, I never saw him lose his temper, turn his back on a person in need, deliver less than anyone deserved, take advantage of a person or circumstance, embarrass, shame or disappoint anyone, or expect anything. Those who knew him, and many who didn't, admired and respected him. He left this world a better place than he found it, and I feel his presence in the goodness I see around me.

My first husband was like my father, and our daughter fortunate to have lived with their combined influence the first fourteen years of her life. Although this man had never held an infant before her, he jumped into his role with confidence and skill. He spoke her name the first time she heard it, gave her the funny middle name, fed her the first bottle, changed the first diaper, gave her the first bath, dressed her in the first non-hospital-issued outfit, and placed her in her own bed for the first time. He did the middle of the night feedings, cared for her while I worked, laughed with her, taught her, and adored her. He did what every father should do.

Since I am gifting myself, I will remember how far beyond he went for her, by what he did for me. He let me go without destroying her family. Divorce meant he didn't sleep at our house. He, or his next girlfriend, was still there to get my daughter off the school bus and stay with her until I came in from work. He still came by to visit, take us to dinner, and help with homework. He made sure we had what we needed, physically and emotionally. He attended family functions and spent holidays with us. He invited me to his soccer games and parties, and included me when his family came to visit.

When he moved across country, he returned for holidays, called every night to see how his daughter's day had gone and ask if she needed anything. He was a phone call or plane ride away in every decision we needed to make concerning our daughter. Our photo albums contain pictures of our daughter with her parents and their new spouses, all celebrating her life together.

The greatest gift to both of us was the love and respect he continued to show for me. I believe children learn to respect their parents by watching how they treat one another. My daughter didn't have to choose between parents, divide loyalties, or doubt that her parents loved each other. Respect came easy for her.

The second husband accepted the first, loved his daughter, and welcomed him into the lives of the daughter he already had and the one we had later. He also did the normal things - diapers, baths, cared for our daughters while I worked, was room-father at school, and shared his knowledge and talent – but his term ended too soon. He died shortly after our daughter's sixth birthday. The first husband stepped in to fill as much of that void as he could.

The first daughter has married a man who treats their children the way my father and her father treated us. I can't think of a luckier woman than I have been. It is a Happy Father's Day for me.

2018 update: The second daughter, too, is with a man who treats their children like my father treated me. And there's nothing in the world I could more for my daughter and her daughters. I continue to love Father's Day because it reminds me how fortunate I am.
 

Guitar Christmas

I had unusual children. They wanted to stay at home and hand out candy on Halloween, and provided lists of their favorite charities when asked what they wanted for their birthdays. They seldom asked for anything and never made Christmas lists. They made gift buying almost impossible.

So, when my youngest sat on Santa's lap long enough to repeat her life story and share her endless list of perceived injustices in the world, an internal alarm went off. When he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, my heart sank.

I had dealt with her questions and wishes for two months and still had a hard time controlling my sorrow; she had blindsided this poor man and his emotions. Santa looked around his elves and caught my eye. I shrugged, shallow, but the best I had to offer at the time. He hugged her close, kissed the top of her head, and sent her back to me.

"Did you see him kiss me?" She sounded relieved, maybe excited. "I told him I want him to bring my dad back, and he kissed me."

"What else did you tell him?" I hoped for a list of toys and a new conversation. "You were up there a long time."

She turned her eyes away. "I just told him about my dad so he'll find the right one." Her light, confident tone assured me she still believed a man in red could deliver anything she wanted. This would surely be the last year. I wished she could have wanted something possible.

As we walked through the mall, I asked more specific questions. What had she told Santa about her dad? Did she ask for anything else?

"I told him my dad had a beard and played guitar, and he liked Chucky Cheese. And he's dead."

"Santa can't bring your dad back," I said. "Nobody can. But maybe he could bring you a guitar." I waited out her labored sigh and defiant repositioning. "Did you ask for a guitar?"

"No way. He'd bring a toy one, like he did with the piano."

"Maybe not. You're older now."

"Santa only brings toy stuff. I want a real guitar."

I suggested we shop awhile before leaving and switched directions when her eyes lit up. "Choose a store. Anything except pets."

"Toys," she said, but changed her mind as we neared the organ music. "Can we go in the music store and look at microphones?"

"Look," I said, grateful for the microphone clue. "No touching and don't ask for anything because I don't have money for a microphone tonight."

Three frazzled clerks juggled impatient customers in the crowded store. My instinct said escape as I squeezed between the pre-teen male torturing a display drum set and a couple, obviously his parents, arguing over the length of time the noisemakers would hold his interest. By the time I cleared myself from the area and my head of the banging, my daughter had made her way to the other side of the store.

When I caught up with her, she had bypassed microphones and found a three-quarter acoustic hanging on the wall above the electric guitars. She stared, eyes glazed and lip pulled between her teeth, ignoring my presence, if it even registered with her. I stepped back to allow a frazzled employee through.

He started past her, stopped, and caught her eye. "Want me to get that for you?"

She shot me a glare. "I can't touch anything."

Without waiting for my response, he climbed a stepladder and handed the guitar down to her. "Okay, Mom?" He asked.

Saying no would have been like letting the air out of her arm floaties or denying the child another breath. She held the instrument and stared as though it might disappear if she looked away.

"Try it out," the defrazzling clerk urged.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and strummed, gently at first. As she grew comfortable and retreated into her own world, she warmed up her voice and let go. "Daddy's Hands," she sang, and played louder, her voice on key even if her chords weren't. Her song lured a gathering of customers to our corner of the store.

Still oblivious to everything around her, she stopped playing, traced the row of butterflies circling the sound hole, and said the magic words. "It was meant to be. I love butterflies."

"She wants it, Mom," the unfrazzled clerk said.

She climbed to her feet and handed the guitar back to him. "My mom doesn't have enough money."

I believe I heard gasps from the crowd and for a minute thought some of them were reaching for their wallets. "You can go back and tell Santa," I said. The clerk supported that idea, but she sighed and explained the problem with Santa and toy instruments.

"Maybe you can hold it?" I asked. "And we can tell Santa to come here and see what she wants?"

The too-freaking-excited-to-contain-himself clerk led the crowd in a series of cheers. "I'll take it down there myself and show it to him, after the store closes," he said. "And make sure he sees this exact guitar."

I pulled out my checkbook. "If you're sure, I guess we need to buy a strap and some guitar picks, so she'll be prepared."

"Positive. Santa's my buddy," the clerk said, walking behind the counter. He processed the transaction--with a twinkle in his eye--and handed the receipt to me.

My daughter received the butterfly guitar on Christmas that year. I got the real Santa.