This weekend saw me spending a lot of time either being with my father or being a father which, if you consider, seems somewhat appropriate given the nature of the holiday.

For the past couple weekends, Dad and I have been spending long hours replacing the old roof of his house with shiny new brown steel in one of our typical father-and-son construction ventures.   While we can certainly spend time with each other in other venues, this is a very comfortable one for the both of us — doing some work, making something new or better, working in a lockstep learned from years and year of hammering next to each other on a multitude of projects.    I am by no means excellent in my abilities and Dad still retains the Master Carpenter title and is the leading force of the guild, but I know enough not to be a burden anymore.

I was reflecting as I was perched high ontop of a steep and slippery dormer roof two stories up from a certain quick fall and splat that there are few other people in the world who could make me climb that high and perch myself out on a surface that had little-to-no means of barring me from making a very rapid slide to certain doom.     Dad, naturally, has no problem with doing so and climbs around within inches of the precarious edge like a monkey with velcro feet, making me cringe but ever so glad that it was him and not me.    But I had the thought — that’s just like a father, isn’t it?   If it was between myself and my son, I’d hang by my gums from the edge of the steel if it meant that he wouldn’t have to get anywhere near it.

At the same time, I cannot help but think when I put myself in these situations that I should really watch out for my ass because my own son needs me to come home at the end of the day because, really — who else is going to wrestle with him on the carpet and teach him how to discretely stare at boobs?     I find myself doing that a lot, whether it’s perched on some high building, driving fast, or attempting espionage of a foreign government — I really have a desire to come back in one piece when possible.

Speaking of the little squirt, I spent any time I wasn’t on a roof with him, and it was one of the most enjoyable weeekends I’ve had.    He’s been more clingy than usual in the past few days, whether he misses the foreign relatives that left last week, his tooth is bothering him more than normal, or he just feels cuddly, I’ve gotten a lot of run-and-crash-into-my-legs, nearly de-pants Daddy because I want up, or headbutting and giggling while Daddy attempts not to swear loudly.      All these, plus laughing eyes, a bouncy countenance, and soft squishy cheeks has given me endless moments where time could go shag a tree and it was just me and my boy having fun and enjoying being together.

So, I’m thankful and I can say without my normal sarcasm that despite turning out sore and tired from the weekend, I had a good Father’s Day — a solid reminder of how much I enjoy working beside and hanging with my own dad and how absolutely much I adore being a daddy to my little boy.     None of it’s glamorous or glitzy, but it’s real, meaningful, and enjoyable, the way a holiday really should be.

And the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man in the moon
When you comin’ home Dad?
I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son
You know we’ll have a good time then

This song has always brought a lump to my throat, no matter when in my life I have heard it (and yes, I prefer the Ugly Kid Joe version, thanks).    It’s not that I had a bad father when growing up — I had a great father.    But now — I have a whole new perspective.

I worry all the time about how good of parent I am being…or not.   Am I being a good Daddy?   Am I spending enough time with him, teaching him, playing with him, showing him enough love and happiness and direction and acceptance?   And more importantly — does he think so?   I know I’m not the absent father of the above song but…in this my insecurities run deep.

Sometimes…sometimes the very act of being apart from him completely shreds my heart into little flaps of pain blowing in the breeze, even when it’s a necessary or justified reason.    I go to work every day, work hard, sometimes long days, because the better job I have, the higher I can get, the better I can do — the more I can provide and give him a good, happy, warm, and safe life.    Of course, there’s a balance — there’s a limit to how much money and so forth can give that nothing but love, caring, and time can fill.     So where do I strike it?   I struggle with that daily.    Ideally, all we need is love.   Realistically, we need so much more than only that.

The way he runs to me when I come home, arms outstretched, huge grin on his face, is at the same time both mind-blowingly wonderful and heart-wrenchingly awful because as good as it feels to have his love and acceptance and desire to see his daddy and to get his hugs and play time, it rips at me to think about what he wonders when I’m not there.   Does he get upset that I’m gone?    Kids breed on familiarity and security – do I wreak his world a tiny bit every time I step out that door and drive away?

Keston, Keston — what shall we do with your daddy who sits here with tears in his eyes and a lump in his throat, considering all the decisions that must be made and things that must be done, both with you and without you, and how to best place my love, devotion, and committment to your well-being such that you will grow up and think, “My dad?   Yeah.   He really loved me.”

Whatever happens, whatever we each must do to make our way in this sometimes confusing and conflicted world, no matter how many times I can and will screw up and not do things right, please always understand that I did the absolute best, to the ends of my very existence, to try to be the best for you.    Because I love you, my son, more than my feeble mind and body can ever show.

– Daddy

Happy May Day, everyone!   And, happily enough, today marks the 18th month since my life and heart were gratefully pierced through by the indefatigable shard of happiness that is my son, Keston.

Naturally, to celebrate we enlisted the help of a talented and flexible Sears photographer to capture his countenance for perpetuity.   Although it took two sessions since aborting naptime the first time became a bit of a trial, I think we got some pretty good takes.    Now if only his Adidas contract would go through.   Gotta get on that.

Happy year-and-a-half, Bug-Bug.     I love you so much!

(click on each image to get a large, up-close-and-personal picture)