A Mother of a Father's Day

It’s time for the annual parade of disappointment we Dads call Father’s Day.

In our house, Father’s Day is not like Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day is a full-blown, weeklong festival of gift giving tribute to the maternal altar. Father’s Day ...I sleep late and watch “Leave it to Beaver" reruns on TV.

Mother’s Day is filled with flower giving, card opening and an expensive brunch. Father’s Day, I cook my the meal and use my credit card receipts from Mother’s Day to start the coals on my 25-year-old grill.

I guess part of the family apathy is caused by my bad cop attitude to raising the kids. While my wife believes our children are placed on earth by the angels I know that the devil is in there, too. I was a normal kid. I know kids are not perfect.

Once when all three kids misbehaved I was angry. My wife said,” They are only human.” What kind of an excuse is that? Aren’t we, as representatives of the human race, still on the top of the food chain? The way I see it, until a giant, mega-mind, race of superior aliens start dropping from the sky... we are the best we’ve got. Live up to it!

I think part of my frustration with raising children stems from my parents. My parents survived the Great Depression and fought the Nazi’s. They were lucky.

My parents had a rich deep culture of poverty, pain and suffering to draw upon when raising me. I had it pretty easy. And as tough as it was, my Dad thought he had to exaggerate and make his childhood memories worse.

I, being a smart-ass child, pointed these facts out to him. My father told me he had to walk three miles to school everyday in snow over his head. I provided a satellite map, which proved it was less than one mile. I also found weather reports, which showed it had never snowed over his head. I even got a topographic survey of his walk to prove that it could not have been uphill in both directions.

I know that I went too far but I could not hear that story again.

My parents had bread lines, the Dust Bowl and a world war. How lucky! Yes, his stories were embellished, but at least he had something to use as an example. My generation has been coddled like a box of fuzzy puppies. My dad did have to walk to school in the winter. He was poor. He had a story. What can I tell me kids?

“When I was your age...I had to ride a bus to school. And when it snowed.... we didn’t have school! We had to get up early and listen for school closings.”

Lame.

I have tried to be a father of the new millennium but I guess mothers have a stronger attachment. It’s probably because of that “giving birth” thing. My son was almost 11 pounds at birth. He should be grateful. My wife was going to have a natural childbirth without drugs. I was worried that she would leave the hospital a morphine addict.

She watched me bond with my son as we collected baseball cards so she started collecting the pictures of kids on milk cartons. When a kid was found she got angry.

I got my son Andy involved in sports at an early age. I thought he would learn teamwork, and be prepared for life...it didn’t work. I had an argument with him when he was eight and he decided to file for free agency. Luckily we were able to trade him at the deadline.

In exchange we got a three-year-old, a third round draft pick and a child to be named later.

Now don’t get upset...we don’t trade our children...we use EBay.

I guess even I believe that Mom deserves more. I know that my mom did. She defended me when I was wrong, covered for me when I disobeyed my father and basically made sure my father didn’t sell me to Gypsies (an actual threat he made several times).

While a Dad may bring reality to a child's  life, a Mom brings compassion. The mix seems to work. I have three great adult kids.... and I don’t know how it happened. Had to be my wife. She deserves a brunch once a year.

I’ll start the grill.

After all, I’m only human.