FROM JUNE 13, 2014
I have a dad. But I am a dad, too. And this is Father’s Day.
This week’s “Father’s Day” Lunar Report deals with my dad. I guess this Lunacy should deal with the poor child who has had to wish me a happy Father’s Day every year since the mid-80’s.
I differ a bit from my dad. He was rarely apologetic. Well, he was regretful, I think – when he did things that maybe harmed at the time those he loved. But in his life patterns? He was apologetic to no one. He was who he was. And I admire his neglect of apologies when it came to the life that he chose.
But me? I’m a wimp. I readily acknowledge that. In my mind, apologies are due.
To my son – I apologize for the time when you were just a toddler, and when I asked my best friend to baby sit you. When I returned home that afternoon, the vision of you walking around the house with your diaper around your knees as you carried yet another beer to your fast asleep babysitter still haunts me.
I apologize for the time I asked you, after attending a Carolina basketball game, to steal toilet paper from the arena’s bathroom because we were broke and out of TP at home.
I apologize for my “sex talk” with you. I tried to tell you some valuable stuff. You just looked at me, rolled your eyes and said, “Oh, Dad!” My wimpy self scratched the back of my head, looked down at the floor and responded, “Well, okay. Just promise me that when you feel like pulling your pants down, you call me first!”
I apologize for the times you came home from school and found me asleep on the sofa with Court TV on the tube. I really am sorry that those times I could not answer your “so what’s up with OJ?” questions.
I apologize for all of those cheeseburger steaks and green peas. That was your dad’s easy way out. But, damn! You slammed down every bite!
I apologize for serving for desert what you called “ghetto cookies.” But cinnamon toast is damned tasty.
Look, I have many more apologies I could list here. Deeper and more meaningful ones. But all I can seem to think about right now is that my only child and his wife have four children of their own. That could possibly mean that they will one day have FOUR times the apologies that I have right now. Damn. Really, son. I am so sorry about that sex talk screw up!
There really are many apologies that I could I make. But they are all so pallid when lined up next to all of my moments of gratitude. Thank you, child – and your wife and my granddaughter and grandsons – for defining for me, in the most elaborate of ways, what old-man pride is all about.