BEING A FATHER ISN'T FOR SISSIES

     What defines a father beyond the biological definition? To me, it's the way the "cape" falls over their shoulders, the holes in the bottom of the shoes from constantly trying to keep up, the worn folds of their wallets, premature graying at the temples, deep laugh lines at the corners of their eyes, and the permanent worry crease between their brows....all symbols they've shared a child's life.

I was blessed to grow up with two grandfathers who were both upstanding men. One, Grandpa Jo, I didn't see as much, but he spent every Christmas Eve with us. His trademark? A cane. One he square-danced with. I remember sitting on the hearth and giggling while he'd demonstrate. His hair was white as snow, his eyes chocolate brown, a WWI veteran who died at the age of 92 with a piece of shrapnel still lodged in his hip. Thus...the cane.

Grandpa Swain, feisty, stubborn, and almost as wide as he was tall, cursed worst than an old salty sailor. "Son-of-a-bitch" flowed eloquently off my toddler tongue by the age 3. When his father died, Grandpa was only 13 years old and the eldest child. He dropped out of school and went to work in the silver mines of Park City, Utah, to provide for his mother and siblings. He taught himself how to build houses from the sketches, to blueprints, to framing, plastering (no sheetrock then) until the last stroke of paint coated the walls. He owned a successful construction company wherein he taught his sons the trade that carried on long after he was buried. He owned the "pink cadillac" I blogged about months ago, always had a 6-pack of beer hidden in the fridge in the basement for "grandma's hair" and I imagine still swearing a blue streak beyond the pearly gates.

I was "daddy's little girl" and knew how to manipulate the title to my advantage whenever possible. The eldest child, only daughter, and commander of three little brothers left in my guard after school until parental supervision arrived home from work I got a taste of parenthood at an early age. I watched my parents struggle to keep us in a nice house in a respectable neighborhood. My dad taught me the meaning of work and a paycheck during the summer where I worked in his print shop and earned enough to buy my own school clothes from ninth grade on. Today, he's in the throes of Dementia, and my title of "daddy's little girl" has changed to warden, caretaker, and a couple of unsavory names yelled when his mind triggers a bad episode. I'm now the "parent," a role I got by default being the only daughter and closest relative. Watching your pillar of strength throughout childhood crumble, is difficult to describe and some days unbearable.

That's why I'm thankful for the strong arms of the superhero I married a century ago (some days feel that way). He drags me to my feet when I collapse and pushes me when I don't want to go on. He fits the description in the first paragraph above. Raising 4 children (2 surprise twins) and stepping in to juggle the balls I have in midair when I need to escape life for a moment, I'm sure was not in the travel brochure when he signed up for marriage. No, I'm pretty sure at age 23 there was only one thing on his mind when he took the matrimonial leap, however, life is in constant motion, and three years later, the game plan had changed drastically. Still in shock from when I announced we were going to be parents several years and a few grandkids ago, he's never once faltered since "dad" became his new name. He's changed dirty diapers, walked sick babies, rushed kids who thought they were invincible to the hospital, hunted down boyfriends who had his daughter out past midnight, towed cars teenagers pushed beyond mechanical limits, and even bailed one out of jail when he discovered the hard way that laws were in in place for a reason.

But he also taught them all how to drive a car, ride a motorcycle (a prerequisite of being a member of our family), camp, hunt, fish, work and save money for the things they wanted, and most importantly, to respect others. They are all now adults, applying the lessons their father taught them in their own lives, and when life turns sideways, they know Dad will don his tattered and patched "cape" to swoop in and save the day if he can, or stand beside them when he can't.

Happy Father's Day to all the men in my life, past and present, and to those who have shadowed a child along life's path by kicking a stone away, or holding a hand when one wandered too close to the edge.

Mother's Day...bah humbug

     I must confess. Mother's Day is not a favorite of mine. Not because I'm forgotten...the opposite. My kids are wonderful to me. Mr. "Grumpy Pants" always makes the comment, "you're not my mother..." but manages to make sure I don't do anything more than necessary that day.

When I was small, we gathered at my grandmother's house for lunch. Everyone brought something (I had 3 aunts who were amazing cooks, besides my own mother) so there was plenty to eat. I had fifteen cousins and we all lived in the same small town, so when you added the grown-ups, we filled the house. The kids played outside in the backyard, which consisted of rolling grassy hills and large cherry trees we liked to climb in our Sunday clothes. I don't ever remember a Mother's Day that it rained. Sunshine blanketed us and the perfume of flowers blooming everywhere, filled the air.

Then Grandma died, dissolving several of the holiday traditions. Granted, my mom and aunts tried to carry on traditions, but as we grew older, married, and had our own families, "getting together" as a mass soon dwindled to our own family units. The "magic" of my youth slowly faded.

When my mother had her stroke, the burden to carry on the tradition fell to my shoulders, as the only daughter. I tried for several years to make it work, but as my children entered their teens, life got complicated. I worked full time, the kids schedules were hectic, and time became a precious commodity. But my mother, bless her, remained locked in a timeless world and guilt seemed to keep me trying to do the impossible.

Finally, unfortunately because I'd reached the end of a fraying rope with my youngest, I put my foot down. First tradition stopped, and by far the most unpopular, I quit going to church on Mother's Day. I hated sitting there listening to someone speak of a "sugar and spice" world where a perfect mother existed, while my life was anything but that way. Instead of being uplifted and inspired, I went home depressed, questioning my parenting skills, but holding a potted plant.

Second, I stopped making the big meal. Too much work and without anyone to really help, a long day for me. Now, it's dinner at Chuck-A-Rama. I know its not the fanciest, best eatery in town, but everyone gets to eat what they want, how much they want, and immediately, which is important when dealing with little ones. Plus I love their rolls. Afterwards, I bid everyone farewell in the parking lot and go home...alone.

My children, those who live nearby, are fine with my version of Mother's Day. They're especially grateful I don't make them go to church!  My mother still tries to inflict the guilt every year, but so far, God's been pretty understanding. I do wear rubber soled shoes all day, just in case.

Still, if I had my choice, I'd do away with all the hoopla. I ban presents. Cards are acceptable, but mainly, I just enjoy getting together and having a meal with my kids where someone else cooks and cleans up. No pressure, no hassle, and no guilt. Of course, my day isn't complete without a melancholy walk down memory lane to a simpler time when the sun kissed freckles on my nose instead of age spots on my arms, and spinning beneath the cherry trees in my fancy dress and shoes, wouldn't result in a broken hip or a knee replacement.

If I had to do it all again, would I choose motherhood? Put up with sick, colicky babies who grew into petulant teenagers that managed to summon trouble whenever they were awake? You bet. Granted, there are a few moments I'd love to have my "do-over" with, but as the sands in my hourglass sift faster, I don't regret my choice. My four kids rock my world. They keep me grounded and sane. Despite our battles, we've all become best friends. Now, I get to sit back and watch them parent their own offspring. Hopefully, they learned from my mistakes, and even if they don't think so, they're going to make their own. One day, they'll watch from my vantage point.

To all the mothers out there, and that includes godmothers, aunts, sisters, next-door neighbors...any woman who has an influence in a child's life, I wish you a wonderful, guilt-free, and relaxing day. And may there be chocolate close by!  Happy Mother's Day!