It’s a little over a week before Father’s Day, and you’re telling your buddy about a new job you seem likely to get. And he says “That would be great for you, because right now you’re *basically* a homemaker.” It’s not meant as a compliment. And upon hearing these words, two conflicting reactions duel within you. Part of you – the part that was born in the early 1970s when so many men refused to change diapers and maybe used phrases like “woman’s work” with something other than shocked incredulity – is insulted and wants to defend yourself against this allegation. Yes, you are the primary caregiver to four children, but you’re also a full time attorney. And you’re a sometimes writer (or whatever it is that you call this thing that you do with words in your free time). And you’re the unpaid money manager for half a dozen friends and family, and you’re on this board, and that committee, and volunteer for this, and help do that, and blah and blah and huff and puff and blah . . .
But the other part – the part that was born thirteen years ago – is vastly proud. Because yes, by God, you ARE a homemaker. And you have been charged with the task of shepherding four amazing little spirits toward a responsible and thinking adulthood. And it is your finest work, and your highest and best use.
A different buddy, in a different conversation, tells you that “no one cares about what you do with your kids all day, but you keep on posting anyway” and “it looks like you have fuck all to do all day”. And guys have asked you to “just stop it with the Facebook,” and “what is WRONG with you?!” and “do you *ever* practice law?!” (You do of course practice law, but professionalism – to say nothing of the attorney client privilege – prevents you from drawing too much attention to that aspect of your life). Buddies have described your writing variously as “self-important” (when you actually thought it was fairly self-effacing or at least tongue-in-cheek), “gay” (which some unenlightened folks still use as an insult in 2015, impossible as that sounds), and “the most annoying thing ever” (okay, maybe that one’s true).
And you wonder what it is about the way you spend your time playing with words on the internet that drives a small but vocal minority of your friends so crazy. Clearly, if they don’t want to read your stuff, they don’t have to. They can ignore you or unfollow you. But why do they seem to want to shut you down, or shame you, or sit in judgment about the content of your posts when they don’t judge posts about fishing or golf or shooting animals for sport? In short, what is it about your writing that threatens them?
And these questions linger in the shadows of your mind. But you only have half answers. And then Father’s Day dawns, and none of it seems important anymore. Because your kids are waking you up, and they present you with an iMovie tribute that they spent hours preparing. And it features pictures, and home video clips, and interviews with each of them. And something swells inside you that your chest cannot contain.
When you were a boy, you didn’t dream of being an astronaut, or a CEO, or a baseball player. You dreamed of being exactly what you are. And it’s beautiful. Because *this* is the real stuff of life.
It’s an honor and a privilege to be called “Dad”. Happy Father’s Day to all of you who answer to that name.