Since my dad died four years ago, father’s day has become a bitter pill. A day when I don’t have anyone to go visit. The fact that it’s also become a somewhat awkward day in terms of my kids and their dad, doesn’t help. I try to do something – to help them have a sense of honoring their dad. Alex tries, too, though this year’s mother’s day breakfast was mainly a cause for me to clench my teeth and wish the whole thing were over so I could get on with my day. It was very kind of him – above and beyond what most divorced dads do I’m pretty sure. But he didn’t make what the kids wanted – in fact, he made something they plain didn’t like – an egg and spinach salad, an old favorite based on a dish we’d had in San Francisco years ago. Not involving them made me sad and them grumpy. It led to a sense that this was some ritual Alex was bestowing on me out of necessity and duty. (Which, of course, is what father’s and mother’s day are for a lot of people, no matter their marital status.) I’d much rather have had a take out croissant and a bunch of hand-picked dandelions. As it was, Thomas’ enormous, perfume-drenched tissue flower he’d made from school and brought home squished in his backpack was my favorite moment of the morning.

Helping kids to honor another parent when we know that parent’s imperfections can be tough. I know that the way in which I miss my dad is sometimes discomfiting to my mom. I keep some of his things on my bureau and she once commented – clearly with a twinge of jealousy – that it was like a “shrine,” tossing the word at me as though it were downright icky. As someone who mindfully keeps a shrine (albeit a messy one), I wasn’t bothered by the word – more by her hurt, which I didn’t really know what to do with.

Tomorrow will be pretty easy since Alex is away. The kids and I got a photo mug made for him from a silly picture of the two of them at the end of the school year. They’ll give it to him next week when he returns, proudly feeling that they remembered.

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