Fathers

My daughter's Father's Day present to her dad - a 'picture tile'
she made at Guides. This photo was taken a few years ago when
the 'grizzled' look could only be achieved with facepaints.

I give my dad a really hard time. He’s the only person I do this with.

My excuses are many: he cuts the tops of his socks off ‘because they’re too tight’; he’s of the generation where he thought it was perfectly acceptable once he was retired for my mum to make his packed lunch for him before she went to work; and when my son was born (after I went in the hospital at midnight, had him at 3.30am and was home, slightly shell-shocked, by 8.30am), he asked me: “Are you going to stay in bed all day?”

Of course, there was also that time when I was 16 and I had to explain to him what a vibrator was, after he said everyone at work seemed to have found it amusing when he told them he’d been decorating all weekend and put up a dildo rail in the hall. (I’ve been unable to look at a dado rail without laughing for the 24 years of my life since, and I fully expect this state of affairs to continue). 

But I love him to bits, despite my merciless teasing. I wrote about it on Father’s Day last year (see previous post, Grandad), so today I want to share a thought or two on my husband, what with him being a father, an’ all.

I love the fact that when my daughter was born, the nurse handed him scrubs and told him to wait (meaning that she’d find him somewhere to change) he stripped off down to his pants in a busy hospital corridor.

I love that he will instantly accept our son’s order to chase him round the house within three seconds of getting in from work.

I love that he will sit and listen to a series of never-ending questions, repeated over and over again by our daughter as thoughts get stuck in that little bit of Prader-Willi Syndrome glue in her brain* (*This is a metaphor, not a medical fact, all right?).

I love that he tells a cracking bedtime story.

I love that when I’ve been sad and low with stuff that life has slapped me in the face with, he’s always known when I’ve needed to be held, needed to talk, or needed him to whisk the kids off somewhere.

I love that he’s as proud as I am of our beautiful, unusual daughter.

I love that he’s a son his mum can be proud of.

I love that he loves me, and that I know this with more certainty than I know anything.

Boy, am I on the right side of a good thing.

Video is The Fleshtones - Right Side Of A Good Thing (which owes a tip of the hat to another fine fellow and father @twrafferty, whose birthday it is today).