Father's Day

Yesterday was Father’s Day. When I was growing up, our parents showed a certain disdain for the two “parent days” that were celebrated in the spring and early summer. I think they found it a little too commercial or North American for their taste. I on the other hand have not disdained Father’s Day over the years, but it has not always had a high profile, perhaps in part because of my father’s disinterest in the day, though I did always try to find appropriate ways to honour him on the right Sunday in June. And after I became a father myself, the day began to grow in importance, and I was always happy to be celebrated by our kids and by Lorraine.

One significant connection I maintain to Father’s Day is the Japanese split leaf maple down in the corner of the lower garden. It was a gift on this day from Lorraine and our children about ten years ago, and its happy presence, in spite of years of our absence and neglect, signifies something important about being a dad and what that might mean to our kids, now adults in their thirties.

I loved being a father from the moment of Toby’s birth. Here’s a small piece from the poem I wrote then, in my amazement:

this baby born the first
ever in the world
and I the first father

And there was no diminishment of my wonder when Jon Eben and then Ellen were born; it was (and is) a profound honour and privilege to be their dad, and I have to love the ways they celebrated that fact through their words and deeds yesterday. I felt that it was my day, as well as being the day of every other father.

One change I have loved to see over the years is the closer involvement of dads with their small children, carrying them in snugglies, pushing them in strollers, holding their hands as they walk and chat, nuzzling them, burping them, hoisting them onto their shoulders, or pulling them behind their bikes. It is an important change from when I was a kid, even though my father was affectionate and caring, and from when I was first a father myself.

I thought about it in the day or so before Father’s Day this year, and especially thought about three young fathers I know very well and how they are with their children (some of whom are my own grandchildren). I wanted to honour their fatherhood, their ways of being with their own small children, the gifts they give.

This is the e-mail I sent to them yesterday (Subject: Happy Father’s Day):

To you young fathers whom I know so well,
I have watched you with your small children,
seen the nurturing care you allow
yourself to give, seen the way you look
and the way you touch, heard the words
you say to them, who are your permission
for unmitigated and unequivocal expressions
of the love you have to give.

You are proud of your boys and your girls,
the light of joy shines in your eyes
without qualification or qualm,
they open you, allow you to open
yourself unreservedly, you are the fathers
they deserve, as you carry them
on your strong shoulders,
push the stroller, pull the wagon,
kick the ball, hug them and kiss,
console and hold them.

They cherish you (as I do)
for who you are and what you give,
that is, your love for them,
and for that alone you have from me
my own unabashed and abundant love.