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.
