We See You, Tender Father

For the brand-new dad with a tiny, squirming bundle,

and a wife who seems to have lost her ever-loving mind.

 

The very sight of you sparks rage in her eyes.

 

You change the diapers wrong.

You fold the burp cloths wrong.

You stroll the stroller wrong.

 

Breathe, tender father.

 

She will come back to you.

 

We always do.

 

For the man who spends his weekends building play sets,

and watches as his lawn is destroyed by

scooters, and sleds.

 

Plastic golf clubs.

 

Tricycles.

 

More scooters.

 

Rope swings.

 

Also, water slides constructed from tarps.

 

For every father whose chance at romance was spoiled

by a 5-year old who had a nightmare

about a llama in pajamas.

 

And those who miss dinner because of the night shift,

or Christmas morning because of the day shift.

 

For the dad who walks in the door after work

and his wife won’t even look his way.

 

She is harried, and snappy, and anxious, and sad.

She will come back to you.

We always do.

 

For now, remind her.

Remind her of who she once was,

and who she is now,

and who she will forever be to you.

 

To the father who lingers at the gate,

the last to board the plane.

 

Who carries the flag,

red-white-and-blue,

upon his own back.

 

We salute you.

 

For every father who has unclogged a toilet,

or chased a bat out of the house,

or caught throw-up in his hands.

 

We appreciate you.

 

All the days you yelled at your kids to shut the door,

because you are not heating the neighborhood.

 

Every baseball game you watched in the rain,

and the recital you raced to see after work.

 

For the lessons you gave a nervous teenager about shaving,

or using the blinker,

or managing a bank account.

 

For the late nights you spent trying to figure out the new godforsaken math,

and explained the origin of the Pythagorean Theorem.

 

Thank you.

 

For the special dads with special children,

who embraced the unusual,

and changed every expectation.

 

For the times you waved at the bus stop,

hoping for just a wave back through the window.

 

Day after day.

Season after season.

 

Sun.

Snow.

Rain.

Spring.

 

We see you.

 

We hear you.

 

You are not alone in this journey

to raise your square peg in a round, round world.

 

We are rooting for you, tender father.

 

There will come a time when your lawn grows green and lush.

The scooters sit in the garage, untouched.

The house echos with emptiness.

 

No more recitals, or baseball games,

or wet tarps draped over the driveway,

or doors flung open to let out the heat.

 

When this day comes, please, remember.

 

Remember the noses you wiped,

and the diapers you changed.

 

Remember the time you stood in the stands,

 cheering as he rounded third base.

 

Your voice was hoarse for the rest of the day.

 

Remember the late-night confessions,

and the teenage whiskers in your sink.

 

Remember all of the IEP meetings,

and the moments you bent your head to his,

simply to hear what he had to say.

 

Jack-a-boo, tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.

 

Remember the day he finally waved.

 

Remember, you are a father.

And this,

is no small thing.

“My father gave me the greatest gift anyone could give another person. He believed in me.”

— Jim Valvano