I hate to say it, but I have spent most of this Father’s Day not thinking about what day it is.  Between my husband’s crazy work schedule and our other responsibilities (volunteering, t-ball) I knew we would not celebrate until his weekend, starting tomorrow.

My father did not play an active role in my life (euphemism).  My grandpa passed away earlier this year.  He was the one who walked me down the aisle on my wedding day.  My great grandpa George (a step, but I never thought of him that way) passed away many years ago around Father’s Day.  He was the dearest, kindest man ever.  I can still see him sitting at the picnic table underneath my Granny’s apple tree.  My husband’s father died recently and also never played an active role in our lives (euphemism again).

This makes such a holiday rather bittersweet.  Though I guess if you really think about it, most holidays are a blend of love, loss, and remembrance.

I look at my husband and find myself at a loss of how to properly honor him on Father’s Day.  The homemade cards, of course.  I have been making his favorite dessert for weeks since strawberry season is upon us.  The eldest made him an elaborate gift involving much usage of scissors and tape.

How do I thank the man that gave me three beautiful, healthy sons?  Who has worked two jobs so I can stay home and raise them?  Who works overtime to help pay for Catholic school for them?  For all the times he drives me crazy, he has five more moments of tenderness, teaching, and love with our family.  He takes them to the park so I can wax the floor without little feet traipsing over it before it is dry, or just so I can hear myself think for an hour.

I watch him teach the boys how to play ball (be it golf, baseball, football, soccer).  I see him get frustrated when the baby makes a simple diaper change take forever.  He seldom eats a thing that isn’t shared with at least one of the kids.  He fixes bike chains that slip.  He takes them to the hardware store with him when going by himself would be so much easier.  He pores over “Where’s Waldo?” books with them way longer than I can.  Every night when he gets home from work, I hear him climb the stairs to just check on them and make sure they haven’t kicked the covers off.

Maybe what we didn’t have makes us try a little harder; appreciate a little more what we do have.  Keeps us from running screaming into the night for parts unknown, no matter how great the temptation!