It's Lilah's second Father's Day. It's going to be fairly low-key, due to the fact that (like every other day ever, it seems) I work at 3. Lilah and I have finished a light morning snack and a shower and have ordered a large breakfast from Toast downtown Ferndale - Eggs Benedict for me and Grand Marnier French Toast for Dano. I would have dearly loved to cook said breakfast, but work is stealing my soul.
I'm increasingly thankful with every day that goes by to have such a devoted and loving father for my daughter. He gets down on the floor and plays with her. He sets boundaries and limits for her gently. I can tell her to stop doing something and she laughs. One word from Daddy about it and she dissolves into heartbroken tears. He's with her while I'm at work and never does it even cross my mind that she's not being excellently cared for. He doesn't see it as a job or a responsibility. He loves his little girl and would do anything for her.
I was in an insuppressible mood this morning to hear the album A Fever You Can't Sweat Out. Now I enjoy Panic at the Disco as well as the next girl, but I'll be honest. The first album is little more than a catchy guilty pleasure. Nothing of musical or lyrical substance to speak of. I chose to analyse why I might be in the mood for this particular album. Probably a poor choice. This was the album that I listened to most when I first moved out of my parents' house in Nashville. And it's a day dedicated to thanking and loving your father. Aaand mine refuses to have a relationship with me. Total Father's Day buzzkill. I started getting into my traditional "holiday/birthday/Mother's Day/Father's Day/family member's birthday mood" last night. This mostly consists of systematically ushering those closest to me to the door of myself and telling them to come again soon. I prefer to spend these days deep inside myself with a sardonically-smiling facade. The way I see it, I'm entitled to a couple of days out of the vast remaining 365 to be a human girl and miss my family. I miss my dad. He called me Pigeon when I was very little. He was the dad to pick us up from school and take us to the circus, just because. He was the best at science projects and when my mother was in the hospital with Zack for pretty much two straight years, he learned how to be a parents to a little girl who liked having her hair done and helped me with all of my badges for Girl Scouts. He has the best sense of humor and could always get me to smile and laugh even when I got in a mood where I was dead-set against it.
Most people who know me are appalled that I work every Mother's Day, Father's Day, some major holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas, and especially my birthday. Let's think about it. I could keep myself busy with taking care of very sick/recovering people, or I could stay home and kill everyone else's good day by being soberingly introspective about my pseudo-family off someplace having a lovely time while I'm here by myself and sad. Pretty obvious choice. I still send my traditional email wishing the parents a lovely day. I tell myself ahead of time I won't get a response. I still feel foolish and furious with myself for "casually" checking throughout the day to see if this year they'll prove me wrong. They don't. It's family tradition, after all.
One of the things I love best about having a child (since that is, after all, the theme-topic of this blog) is the chance to start over. All the majorly fucked up things about my childhood and dysfunctional relationship with dysfunctional people who share blood and genes with me will never really cease to exist. But I can look at Lilah and her starry blue eyes, laughing pink-lipped smile, upturned nose, and sunny blonde hair and all I feel right now is relief at the chance for redemption. That's how this Creator God I love works. No matter how dismal the feeling or how long it lasts, he never fails to gently point out a chance to redeem it into something beautiful. Dano being such a wonderful father armed with nothing but instinct and his own examples in his life reassures me that my childhood and adult relationships with my parents aren't the norm. They aren't the automatic default. There are many beautiful parents in the world, and my husband is one of them. So thanks to all the fathers in the world who love their little girls. Don't ever stop. It means more than you know.
