It's Father's Day, my first. Actually, it's been Father's Day Weekend. I received a laminated card made from construction paper made at daycare by the girls; a cutout of Blaine's hands glued to it, with the message 'Daddy's Helping Hands". I think back to a time no longer than 6 months ago when I would be the cynic about parents constantly fawning over their kids. I would instantly recoil, desperately wanting to say aloud what I was thinking at the time: Nobody cares. Your kids are not special.
Crude scribbles in various crayon colors, a stick figure family drawn with markers, the dry macaroni glued to a paper plate resembling perhaps what Picasso might create with similar materials, all of these covering bulletin boards or file cabinet drawers of proud parents at the office. Memo to all of you that I have looked down on for your open and outward pride in your kids: I get it now.
((Note: There IS a line here, mind you. The above memo does not include parents that cover the back window of their minivan with dance, soccer, football, softball, track, cross-country, basketball, and golf stickers, embazoned with their kids' names and numbers. Or my new personal favorite, the family of stick figures, including the dog, cat, hamster and goldfish. All of them, just plain stupid.))
Here's the man recently joining the foray of cereal consumption (sloppily, as you might imagine), and hopefully a lifetime of the enjoyment, love and reverence of food. Preferably barbecue. Preferably not anyting in a blue box. This pasty, flavorless groul will have to suffice for now.
Oh, and Happy Father's Day, Dad. I see what all the fuss is about now. Smile, will ya?