Jun

21

Father’s Day

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It’s been six years since I last had any contact with my father. He’s never met his own grandchildren. He may not even know they exist, but I think it’s far more likely he does. I think he probably sees them in the same way anyone else who visits this website does.

On this subject I have no generosity, no forgiveness, and no willingness to accept explanation. I don’t think about him much, but I hope it hurts to see what he’s missing. I hope with every photo, every word, every tiny glimpse into the lives he so easily cast aside, his heart weighs heavy with the knowledge of what could have been.

I don’t even have the words for how grateful I am that my sons have a father that is everything my own father was not. Their father is strong, selfless, committed, and most of all, he loves them with everything in his heart. Riley and Dylan will always be secure in the knowledge that there is nothing in this world that could cause JB to leave his children. They will be loved throughout their lives, and they will never know a day when their father will not be there to support them.

On this Father’s Day, I want JB to know what an amazing dad he is every single day of the year. I want him to know he truly embodies everything fatherhood should be. I want him to know how lucky I feel for having him by my side, and how blessed his children are for having him as their dad.

Father’s Day 2009 from Linda Lee on Vimeo.

Jun

17

Blanket apologies

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Dylan,

I’m sorry I can’t stop cramming my hand up the bottoms of your pantlegs in order to squeeze your Pillsbury-rolls while yelling “FAT THIGHS! FAT THIGHS!”

I’m sorry I squish your butt during bath time. I’m sorry I love it so much when I ask where your belly is, and you tentatively lift your shirt, poke your own bellybutton, and say “Beh.” I’m sorry I enjoy making you scream and laugh when I smell your feet, then dramatically reel back holding my nose. (I’m sorry, but they really do smell. Like stinky little boyfeet.)

I’m sorry you can be such a douchebag. I’m sorry you hate diaper changes so goddamned much and that you throw the world’s biggest screaming fit every single time you must endure one. I’m sorry you have the temper of a Myanmar dictator and frequently become overcome with fits of apoplectic rage. I’m sorry you routinely hit, pinch, throw things, go boneless, become stiff, furiously gag yourself, and shriek at the top of your formidable lungs.

I’m sorry I am not more patient with you during those moments. I’m sorry for the times I have yelled, slammed doors, and done nothing to hide my frustration. I’m sorry for behaving as though I am simply enduring your presence, rather than enjoying it.

I’m sorry this is such a tough stage. I’m sorry if I’m not very good at handling it. I’m sorry if it’s not completely and utterly obvious to you how much I love you with every flawed, inadequate molecule in my body.

I’m sorry, but you’ll always secretly be my favorite.

:::

Riley,

I’m sorry I sometimes transfer the frustrations caused by other situations onto you. I’m sorry I sometimes tell you to be quiet, when all you’re doing is talking. I’m sorry I can’t always focus my whole attention on the charming little boy you have become. I’m sorry you rarely get my full energy and engagement in the games you want to play, the conversations you want to have, and the activities you want to do.

I’m sorry that every so often you say, “What the HELL?” and instead of chastising you, I laugh.

I’m sorry you can be such a whiner. I’m sorry you’re so weird about getting dirt on your feet, and that you have a total system meltdown if there’s a microscopic rock in your shoe. I’m sorry you routinely become absolutely encrusted with filth from playing outside, then lose your mind if you see a stray floating piece of grass in the bathtub. I’m sorry you seem to have picked up your brother’s habit of jumping up and down while making horrible crabby sounds when you don’t get your way. I’m sorry I’m not more understanding about these things.

I’m sorry your father taught you to like AC/DC and now you can sing lustily along with “Down Payment Blues”. No, really, I am.

I’m sorry I constantly gross you out by gushing over your lovely big brown eyes, and your heartbreakingly knobby knees, and that I insist on hugs and kisses every day. I’m sorry I’ll never in a million years be able to remember all the hilariously awesome things you are saying these days, try as I might to write them all down. I’m sorry I still enjoy carrying you around, even though you’re such a big kid now. I’m sorry I don’t know how to put into words how very much I love you.

I’m sorry, but you’ll always secretly be my favorite.

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