It’s also for papas, pops, daddies, and dads. It’s for uncles and grandfathers, for neighbors and friends. For every man who took the time to play catch in the yard, drink tea with dolls, or give horsey rides.
What do you want for Father’s Day?
Maybe you’ll get a tie. Perhaps you’ll get cologne, a card, a kiss, a hug, or a hello. Whatever you get, it won’t be enough. There’s nothing yet made that could fit in a box as valuable as what you gave us.
Your time.
“My time?” you fathers might say. “I’ve given a lot more than my time. I put food on the table and a roof over your head. I hammered more nails, changed more tires, and buried my head beneath the kitchen sink more times than I can count.”
And that’s all true, but it’s not the first thing we remember. It’s not what we treasure.
Think about all the shows you’ve watched, all the books you’ve read, and all the movies you’ve seen. How many had characters with absent fathers? Think of all the people you’ve met. How many had disinterested dads, or drunken dads, or no dads at all?
That’s what you gave us. That’s what we remember—your presence, your time, you.
So what do you want for Father’s Day?
It could have been different. You could’ve decided that the game was more important, or nights out with the guys. No one would’ve blinked if you said you needed “me-time.” Plenty have done it. Plenty still will.
You could’ve said, “I’m not ready to be a dad,” or “I’m not meant to be a father.” You could’ve packed up, left home, and skipped town. It’s been done before. It’ll be done again.
But you broke the mold.
You broke it every time you changed a diaper, and every time you got up at night so mom could sleep. You broke it when you labored over model cars for pinewood derbies. Every time you lay down on the floor so we could play doctor. Every time you called us “Princess.” Every time you came home early, and when you skipped that important meeting so you could watch our recitals, our games, and our plays.
When you sat on our beds and gave us “the talk.”
So what do you want for Father’s Day?
How can we repay you for explaining why the sky is blue? Why our pets have to die? For singlehandedly facing the monsters under our beds? For taking the training wheels off our bikes? For telling us, “I think it’s time we try driving on the freeway,” when we were still perfectly willing to stay in the parking lot?
For lending us the keys to your car? For giving us away?
For being there.
So you tell me. What do you want for Father’s Day?
We’ve given you a day, but that’s not enough. I’d tell you we love you, but that’s not enough. So maybe the greatest gift I can give you is this: when people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, my answer’s always the same. Whether I’m five or I’m ten; whether I’m fifteen or fifty. It never changes. Even when I’m old and gray.
“When I grow up,” I say, “I want to be just like my dad.”
I hope that’s enough.
