Home Alone

On the Friday before Father's Day, my first as an expectant father, my wife left me. Don't worry, she came back on Sunday.

Before we decided to take Labor Day weekend literally, my wife and I had whirlwind plans for the long weekend. Two of our friends, one of mine from high school, two of hers from law school, are getting married Labor Day weekend. The first wedding, where my wife was to be a bridesmaid, will be Friday, Sept. 1 in Long Island. The second, two days later in Saint Louis. Flush with expendable cash, energy, and liver, we planned to attend both.

Being otherwise occupied of Labor Day weekend, those whirlwind plans were abbreviated to my wife attending a bridal shower this weekend in New York. I had an unavoidable conflict on Saturday morning, leaving my wife to fend for herself (with her mother) up I-95 and the Jersey Turnpike, while I had to spend the weekend at home. Alone. Woe was me.

With the end of my Healthy Challenge Competition coming to a close in a few days, I couldn't fit in as much gluttony as I would have liked. I more than made up for it in sloth and laziness. But, come Saturday evening, I began to run out of deadly sins to practice, unless cleanliness and loneliness snuck on that list somehow.

So I didn't live it up in pure bachelor bliss the past 48 hours. But I did reconnect with my own bed for some quality time and I managed to ruin my wife's Father's Day present by finding it while cleaning and reading it. C'est la vie.

It was a fairly uneventful Father's Day 'round these parts. Despite getting a few "almost" Father's Day cards and calls, it's hard for me to fully embrace the day. It's getting credit for something I have not yet done. Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with the accolades. But come laud me next year, when I have nine months of successful child-rearing under my belt, and then we can talk about a holiday.

My Father's Day

"My father died when he was 52."
"How did he die?"
"Heart attack. His father died of a heart attack, too, he was in his early-70's"

The above is verbatim dialogue from my doctor's appointment today. The death in question (my father's) was also today - nine years ago.

Given the health concerns that prematurely felled my father, I suppose a doctor's appointment was an appropriate tribute.

I'm doing fine, health-wise, thanks for asking. I've put on a bit more baby weight than I expected, but I'm hoping my recent cutback in reckless behavior will balance me out, at least until I stop eating double portions of dinner.

So, my dad has now missed out on nearly a third of my life (and more than a third of my brother's), and not just any third. He's missing out on the payoff.

It wasn't until I was faced with fatherhood that I began to realize the responsibilities that go beyond basic feeding and clothing. Being a father - a parent - is to take on the responsibility to help shape and develop a human being in your image (or not in your image, if that's the better way to go).

Being a father means taking the sum of your wisdom, experiences, and prejudices, and conveying them to another, highly malleable human. It means taking stock of life and man's role in the world and developing others to help share in your vision.

From political, philosophical, and theological beliefs down to the minutiae - your stance on the designated hitter, how you butter your bread - a father's beliefs and values are passed down to his children. All in the hope that your children - whether they ultimately share your belief system or use it as a base to discover their own - grow up to be productive within society, happy in their daily lives, and ultimately, make you proud of your efforts.

Done correctly, I imagine that it is an indescribable feeling. After years of nurturing, providing, crying, worrying, stressing, sweating, budgeting, cleaning, chauffeuring, and teaching, being witness to your child, all grown up, in a life of their own...that's the payoff.

And my father missed out.

The rites of passage he witnessed (bar mitzvah, high school graduation) pale in comparison to what he missed. He never saw me graduate from the college he tried so hard to pay for (let alone see their football team finish with more than three wins in a season), he never met the woman I married (he narrowly missed it, too), he never saw my first apartment or heard tales of my first non-hourly rate job. He missed one hell of a wedding. And he's missing the birth of his first grandchild.

I miss him and think about him everyday - but March 13 in particular (in case you were wondering, yes, he did die on Friday the 13). Though his death was personally tragic, I try to avoid the sappy, sentimental thoughts that gave us "Cat's in the Cradle" and "Field of Dreams." My father and I had a good relationship - certainly as good as a parent and child can, when that child was a teenager 35% of the time.

I'd love to conclude this post with something inspirational, like how I learned from my father's death that I need to live a better/healthier/more fulfilling life, but that simply isn't very true and it's not me. Honestly, I didn't learn much from my father's death other than learning how much it sucks when your father dies.

But I did learn from my father's life. I learned of the important balance between work and family. I learned that a parent should never stop finding ways take care of their family. I learned that you should never put your hand anywhere near the moving parts of a forklift. I learned you should probably upgrade your eyeglasses every decade or so and, that if you wait long enough, flannel will come back into style.

I will forever remain heartbroken that my father never had the chance to see either of his two sons grow up, met his daughter-in-law, or had the chance to impart his (grand)fatherly wisdom on his grandchild. But if my kid pops out and has blue eyes, is a southpaw or with a thick head of hair that's already turning gray - well, my father will have made his mark.