(I always liked Adrian Belew's Oh Daddy far more than Fleetwood Mac's, not least of all because it's actually about a father...)
Yesterday was the final field trip of the school year, and the entire sixth grade of the Young Prince's middle school went to Gettysburg. It was a nice trip, and the kids seemed to enjoy it. I think my group learned at least one bit of history that they won't forget, and (most notable for me,) I think the YP was not terribly embarrassed at having his mom as chaperone. All in all, it was a very good day.
One of the nicest things I observed was the significant number of dads who were also chaperoning. You hear so much about the uneven distribution of labor in child-rearing, and I suppose there must be some truth to it (though in our household, that uneven distribution is probably skewed to Not Your Average Blogger carrying more of the load), but from what I saw yesterday, fatherhood is alive and well, at least within one suburban Virginia middle school population.
When I was a kid, the first couple of weeks in June always brought a crisis of creativity. Being a child of few earning opportunities (and little restraint with what funds I did get), I generally had to figure out some handmade homespun effort when it came to gifts, and June meant my father's birthday, my parents' anniversary, and Father's Day in rapid succession. That meant a lot of writing/drawing/sewing/whatevering, especially for someone who was not particularly artsy (or crafty! ha!) by any stretch of the imagination, with the stress exacerbated by the fact that I knew my dad didn't REALLY need another ash tray or pencil holder or incomprehensible drawing, no matter how much praise he heaped on me upon receipt.
I confess, I am not much help as an old person when it comes to helping the YP in such matters. On the other hand, he is better compensated for his help around the house and in a much better position to buy gifts, such as movies he likes thinks we will like.
Being older and and somewhat better funded myself, I can say definitively that it is much easier to throw food and drink and confetti and be on my merry way. We are 2/3 of the way through those milestones this year (happy birthday, dad! happy anniversary, you two!), and I am Well On Top of Things. It's a nice feeling to be able to come through with gifts and sentiments that I know my parents will like and use—not just monetarily, but mentally, knowing their likes and dislikes and acting on that information—especially considering that Looming Mortality gave us all a rather nasty reminder earlier this year.
I have so many friends and acquaintances who have parental issues, and these songs of how Daddy Was Never Home, Mama Showed Her Love With a Wooden Spoon make me so sad and angry and exasperated. I wasn't there, maybe they were neglected and abused. Or maybe they expected more than their parents were capable of providing. Or maybe they were spoiled and wanted to live in a sitcom. I don't know. Having been on both sides of it, I will be very curious to see how the YP grows up to view NYAB and myself. (I'm reasonably certain NYAB will come out looking better than I do, not without reason.) Having been on both sides of it, I wish more people would give their parents the benefit of the doubt and try to get to know them as adults on more equal footing.
I suppose my more liberal friends would tell me I should Check My Privilege in this regard. Frankly, I don't need to check it. And what good does that do, anyway? I know I've had massive advantages. I'm not going to intentionally restrict my resulting opportunities—that would be a disservice to said Privilege. And I'm not going to stop calling a spade a bloody spade when I happen to step on one and the handle pops up and smashes me in the sternum.
I know I won the birth lottery in a lot of ways, my parents not the least of them. I'm proud of them, of me, of us as a unit, and of what I hope will come in future generations. I am blessed that they made family a priority, that they read to me, that they encouraged me, that they stayed married, that my dad was engaged in my upbringing and that my mom didn't let me get away with phoning it in. I hope that NYAB and I are doing the same for the YP. I think we are, and I am hopeful that he will see us for what we are (and aren't,) and in time will appreciate (and forgive) all the same things that most healthy families have in common.
So this Sunday, when Facebook and Twitter are swamped with expressions of paternal affection and appreciation, maybe we try a little harder to actually mean it than to just put on the Social Media Show.
But what do I know? Our day will be spent in Fredericksburg on a Steak-and-Shake–fueled hike, followed up by a nice drive home and a nap, then a phone call to my parents. Just don't ask me what sort of gift NYAB will be getting; that's between the YP and his glue stick and markers.
Happy Father's Day, everyone.
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