Father's Day, From Where I Sit

My mom and I had a quick laugh today on the phone remembering my dad who passed away last August. She wished me a Happy Father’s Day, and I said thanks. I then wished her a Happy Mother’s Day. She said thanks. Then she said “your dad always used to say that every day should be Father’s Day, and every day should be Mother’s Day.” I remembered that bit of wisdom from my dad, as well; it was part of his anti-Hallmark-commercialized-farce rant about the nature of most holidays, but it was also his way of saying “honor your father and mother every day, and not just one Sunday per year.” I laughed then when Mom said “it doesn’t mean you completely ignore the actual Mother’s Day until after you’re divorced.” Love my mom! It was nice to remember dad with her a minute on the phone.

From where I sat today on Father’s Day, I was indeed honored. I am still wearing the SpongeBob Squarepants button that Tristan picked out that pronounces me “The Spongiest Dad in the World”, whatever that means. All four kids signed the card, I think. I mean Tucker assures me that the squiggles include a T, K, and R, in the first name, and the H, G, and H of Harbaugh. To me it looks less like a signature than an EKG readout. I got a nap today on my brand new hammock, at least until Tristan came out on the porch to announce to me that my nap was over. Apparently my snoring was scaring the birds and squirrels.

But the best things that happened today on Father’s Day were these little snapshots of my kids interacting; they are my greatest joy and honor. I watched Emma playing with her brand new volleyball, trying to teach her little brother Tristan how to bump it back. She was so kind to him, and so patient, and he was so eager for the chance to play with the ball and his sister, even though it mostly meant him chasing the balls he’s still too young to control. She kept at it with him long past his other siblings would have given up on it. And then she and I hit the volleyball back and forth and the threw the Frisbee around as the grill was doing its work fine without my supervision.

And then there was earlier today when we pulled away from Peyton in the parking lot after his baseball game, first win of the travel season for the Gobles team. Tucker rolled down the window so he could yell out to his brother “I love you, Peyton.” Not once, but probably five times, as Peyton turned a little red and ducked into his dad’s truck, too embarrassed yet at age eleven to yell “I love you, too.” Tucker said he was going to keep saying it until Peyton said it back. When P. got back to the house at about 8:30 p.m., Tucker was waiting for him at the door. “Why didn’t you tell me you love me back,” he asked. Peyton finally giggle-chortled a weak “I love you, too,” but Tucker said he wasn’t accepting it until Peyton could say it with feeling. Peyton snuck up behind him and gave him a half-strangle, half-hug, and that got him off the hook, at least until Tucker stole the top half of his ice cream cone to teach him a hard lesson about love.

Loriann’s dad came over after dinner for a bowl of ice cream, and the day ended well. We all sat in the kitchen eating ice cream and amazingly fresh fruit, listening to Dick’s story about the intelligence of spiders, until Tristan showered, and tuckered out, headed up to bed, smelling fresh again until morning. Tucker also headed up to bed early to be fresh for basketball camp in the morning. Peyton just danced by in his towel on his way up to pajamas and bed, singing along to “Jack and Diane” playing on my computer, and Emma is hanging around somewhere, hoping we’ll watch a little bit of a movie before bed, which sounds like a great idea to me. Loriann, once again queen of the party, is somewhere making everything happen.

I wish I could share the day with dad to tell him “you know, you were right. Every day should be father’s day, when father’s day is about being surrounded by the love of your family.” So Happy Father’s Day, Dad. You would have liked this one, at least from where I sit.