Several months after The Daver and I started dating, he flew home from somewhere (boy were his arms tired!) and somehow, rather than allowing him to take the pee-stained EL home, Ben and I went to pick him up at the airport. It was the first time he’d met Ben in the flesh (as my boyfriend) and although he told me later that he was nervous as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs (he totes didn’t use that phrase, but I wish he had because how awesome is that?), it didn’t show.
Ben was a strange kid who didn’t exactly attach himself easily to people so I was quaking in my Uggs. All for nothing. The two of them hit it off all he’s the cheese and I’m the macaroni style. I can honestly tell you that I’d never seen anything like it. They danced and grooved to Erasure (don’t judge my music, people), Ben allowed Dave to carry him across a busy road, and Dave began the first of many Making Sure Ben Drank His Milk With Dinner campaigns.
That was the night that Daver became a father. I’d say it was a choice, but it wasn’t really. Not anymore than one can choose whom they fall in love with. Had it not been over for Dave by then, it was then. He was done, cooked, a father and a partner.
The whole ride back home that night I heard nothing but this from my normally silent child: “Oh…BYE, Dave” in the most mournful tone you can imagine. He never said “Mommy” but “Dave” was the 5th or 6th word in his vocabulary.
It’s still probably his most used word to date.
Every single day when I hear my eldest beg to stay up to see Dave when he comes home, my middle son to say mournfully (again with the damn mournful!) “Dada…work.” If his words could have a frowny face, they would. Then my daughter, the light of my life, wiggles her whole body with utter happiness when she sees her beloved Daddy come into her line of sight.
I know how lucky we all are.
So Happy Father’s Day to you, The Daver, o! the Prime Minister of Poopy Diapers and the King of all Tickle Fests. We raise our glasses (and bottles of milk to you today).
It’s not a glamorous swinging life, this poo-stained, vomit-encrusted, stinky existence. Sure you traded living downtown for a house in the ‘burbs and the Integra for a mini-van. But it’s a nice house; it’s OUR house, and shit, the van really is fucking useful.
And you, like the rest of us, wouldn’t change it for anything. (Except maybe Prada. But it would have to be a REALLY nice Prada bag or something. But I digress.)
Okay, for that, I am totally putting up THIS picture rather than the super corny shit that I could have. Happy Father’s Day, love.
You see this ring? IT MEANS I OWN YOU.
If there are any other dudes out there who read my estrogen-laden blog, I wish you a happy, Happy Father’s Day as well. May your grills be grill-y and all of your sausages cooked. Except, you know, THOSE sausages.
Wow. THAT was awkward.