Every year, I write a post about my husband for Father’s Day. Well, everything that needs to be said has been said, right?
No. Not by a long shot.
I love my husband for a million reasons, but Father’s Day is about honoring him and his relationship with his children. I am fortunate that I met him when the kids were so young, because I have been with him to watch them grow up, and I have been there to catch him in countless little moments that etched themselves into memory and my heart.
All four kids are much taller than me now, but I still can’t look at them without seeing them as small enough to fit onto their father’s lap (although they insist that they still fit there now), or climbing on him on the living room floor, impressing themselves with their herculean might as he let them pin him down. I see four tiny, innocent faces watching him intently as he read a book out loud, adding his own witty narrative and details, sometimes completely changing the story, as long as it made the kids laugh.
I am humbled by my husband at times too, and his ability to focus entirely on the kids and be the better person, no matter what. He is lied to, lied about, insulted, and put down endlessly, but he does not return fire. When offered the opportunity to take jabs at others who constantly stab at him, he won’t do it, saying simply that the kids don’t need to hear it or see it. That is all that matters to him, and that is what makes him a tremendous father.
Sorting through the closet one day, years ago, my husband came across a large tote box. Once the kids heard there were pictures inside, they instantly launched into a chorus of “Let me see! Let me see!” So my husband opened up the box and started passing around pictures and sharing the stories behind each one.
A lot of the pictures involved my husband’s ex-wife, naturally, seeing as how they once shared a life together. My husband could have shoved those pictures to the bottom of the box. He could have made a face, could have dropped nasty comments about her. But he didn’t. He showed the kids each picture, laughed as he told them what was going on in each one, adding things like “You were still in your mother’s tummy in this one” or describing what everyone was doing, including his ex-wife, to the kids, who gathered around that box and passed pictures to each other, carefully repeating the story he had just told them.
I watched them, smiling, and I knew that a similar scene was not likely at their other home. That’s sad to me. Creating those four little people together is something that should link them together, something special and unique that is shared just between them. Letting it become what it is now, what it’s been for a long, long time, is heartbreaking. It’s like smearing tar onto something once potentially beautiful, fouling it beyond repair. Why do that?
Maybe I’m just idealistic. Or naive. Or maybe I just remember the way the kids looked at those pictures, how my husband sounded as he shared the stories, how the kids laughed and smiled and wanted to know where they fit into that particular story.
I’m honored to be part of their stories now. I’m grateful they shared their stories from before I knew them. It’s a shame the kids can’t be that relaxed, that open, all the time, asking questions, free to just be kids with people who love them. Those happy memories shouldn’t have the lid slammed on them, squashed in darkness, ruined by anyone, especially by anyone who was lucky enough to be a part of them.
We have made our own memories, taken our own pictures, and we have years ahead of us to keep doing both. I am proud of my husband for being a father first and foremost, for knowing the pictures and the memories in that box meant something special to the kids, and not taking that away from them.
“Happy Father’s Day” just doesn’t seem like enough, but it will have to do for now. So…happy Father’s Day to my husband, the book reader, the monster slayer, the joke teller, the troublemaker, the hugger, the fixer, the tickler, the hide-and-seeker, the lecturer, the teacher…the one who is all of these and more for us.
It’s pretty well known by anyone in any caretaker role that parenting is often a thankless job. The work and the effort are taken for granted, and the draining worry is overlooked by the very ones giving you all those gray hairs.
I came across this quote while I was putting together a mini motivational poster for our workout room. It really hit a nerve.
Sweat & Sparkle 