for the fathers in my life, on their day

Edward loved me. He did. He'd always wanted a boy and here I was. He'd expected more, of course, from my arrival. A muted brilliance, a glow, maybe even a halo of some kind. That mystical feeling of completion. But none of that came. I was just a baby, like any other -- except, of course, that I belonged to him, and that made me special. I cried a lot and slept a lot and that was about it; my repertoire was very limited, though there were those moments of peaceful clarity and joy when I stared up at my father from his lap, my eyes beaming, as though he were a god -- which, in a way, he was. Or godlike anyway, having created this life, having planted the magic seed. At those times he could see how smart I was, how bright, he could visualize my potential in the world. So much was possible.

But then I would start to cry again, or my diaper would need changing, and he would have to hand me over to my mother who fixed all that and fed me, while Edward watched helplessly from his chair, suddenly tired, excruciatingly tired of the noise, the sleepless nights, the smell. Tired of his tired wife. So he missed the old life sometimes, the freedom, the time to think things through -- but did that make him different from any other man? It was different with women, they were made to raise a family, they had the attention span for it. Men had to go out of the house and work, that's the way it had always been, from the time of the hunter-gatherers it was so and still was today. Men were torn in this way; they had to be two people, one at home and another away, while a mother had to be but one.

In those first weeks he took his job as a father quite seriously. Everyone noticed: Edward had changed. He was more thoughtful, deeper, philosophical. While my mother took care of the day-to-day things, he brought vision to the task. He made a list of the virtues he possessed and wanted to pass onto me:

perseverance
ambition
personality
optimism
strength
intelligence
imagination

Wrote it on the back of a paper bag. Virtues he'd had to discover himself, he'd be able to share with me, free of charge. Suddenly he saw what a great chance this was, how my empty-handed arrival was actually a blessing. Looking into my eyes he saw a great emptiness, a desire to be filled. And this would be his job, as father: filling me up.

[...] He was a father, and he did the things a father was supposed to do. He played some catch, he bought the bike. He packed lunch for the picnics to the mountain overlooking the town, the great city of endless promise, from which he could see the spot where he first did this, and then that, and over there were he made his first deal, and there where he kissed that pretty woman, and all the triumph and glory of his short life. This is what he saw when he went there, not the buildings or the skyline, not the tree groves or the hospital where they were building the new wing. No: it was his story, the story of his adult life spread out before him like a landscape, and he would take me there and hold me up so I could see and he would say, "Someday, son, this will all be yours."

This passage, from the novel Big Fish: A Novel of Mythic Proportions by Daniel Wallace, reminded me of the way I've perceived fatherhood in Blake. Over the past year, Blake has proved to be not only a loving husband, supportive of my efforts to keep house and raise our son, but a wonderful dad. He is kind, gentle, patient, and playful -- everything a father should be. Garrett is one lucky little boy.

And I am one lucky little girl, privileged to be the daughter of a wise and experienced father and father-in-law. Both have taught me well what it means to be firm, yet full of love. I love them both dearly, and am grateful for the fathers they are to me, and the grandfathers they are to my son.

Happy Father's Day!