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Jun. 20th, 2021 07:47 pm Another year, another Father's Day. This one sharper than others (though not as much as the first few years)...I've known several people who have lost their fathers in the past year, and somehow their pain amplifies my own.
I know there are so many people in the world who have wonderful, loving relationships with their fathers, and that Father's Day is a time to celebrate them. But for me, it feels like a fucking slap in the face. Why do they get to have their dads, and I don't? (And I know also that there many others who don't have their dads, or never did, or have difficult or toxic relationships, and they're not celebrating either...but that doesn't make me feel any better.)
But a few days ago, I suddenly remembered a childhood memory that made me smile. So for this Father's Day, I'll share a fun memory, one that shows my dad's true self, his goofy, playful side.
When I was young, the village my dad lived in did not have fluoride in its drinking water. So the school had these little packets of flouride mouthwash they handed out to students. My dad managed to get ahold of some of the packets, and whenever I was at his house, he had me gargle with the fluoride mouthwash every night. He would do it too, figuring it couldn't hurt.
Somewhere along the line, I can't remember how, one of us got the idea to pose while spitting the mouthwash out. Like those classic fountains with statues of angels and swans and such, beautifully posed with water flowing out of their mouths. Of course we weren't as graceful, but every night after we gargled, I would hold the mouthwash in my mouth, go out on the deck, and make the most ridiculous pose I could while spitting the mouthwash out. Then Dad would do the same thing, and we'd judge who made the silliest fountain pose.
Night after night, we would make our fountain poses, laugh at each other, think about what goofy pose to do the next night, then finish brushing our teeth (or in his case, dentures), and go to bed.
It was a silly ritual. The whole thing was ridiculous; two people standing out on the deck, arms in the air, one foot stuck out behind, spitting out mouthwash while trying not to laugh. But it was our ritual, and I loved it.
It's times like those I want to remember. Of course there were many deeper moments, many long conversations about serious topics, many life lessons learned, and I cherish every one of those. But when I think about Dad, the first thing I remember is how much fun we had together. How many times we laughed together. How every little everyday task could become an adventure, if you approached it the right way.
I love you, Dad. I'll practice my fountain pose for you.
I know there are so many people in the world who have wonderful, loving relationships with their fathers, and that Father's Day is a time to celebrate them. But for me, it feels like a fucking slap in the face. Why do they get to have their dads, and I don't? (And I know also that there many others who don't have their dads, or never did, or have difficult or toxic relationships, and they're not celebrating either...but that doesn't make me feel any better.)
But a few days ago, I suddenly remembered a childhood memory that made me smile. So for this Father's Day, I'll share a fun memory, one that shows my dad's true self, his goofy, playful side.
When I was young, the village my dad lived in did not have fluoride in its drinking water. So the school had these little packets of flouride mouthwash they handed out to students. My dad managed to get ahold of some of the packets, and whenever I was at his house, he had me gargle with the fluoride mouthwash every night. He would do it too, figuring it couldn't hurt.
Somewhere along the line, I can't remember how, one of us got the idea to pose while spitting the mouthwash out. Like those classic fountains with statues of angels and swans and such, beautifully posed with water flowing out of their mouths. Of course we weren't as graceful, but every night after we gargled, I would hold the mouthwash in my mouth, go out on the deck, and make the most ridiculous pose I could while spitting the mouthwash out. Then Dad would do the same thing, and we'd judge who made the silliest fountain pose.
Night after night, we would make our fountain poses, laugh at each other, think about what goofy pose to do the next night, then finish brushing our teeth (or in his case, dentures), and go to bed.
It was a silly ritual. The whole thing was ridiculous; two people standing out on the deck, arms in the air, one foot stuck out behind, spitting out mouthwash while trying not to laugh. But it was our ritual, and I loved it.
It's times like those I want to remember. Of course there were many deeper moments, many long conversations about serious topics, many life lessons learned, and I cherish every one of those. But when I think about Dad, the first thing I remember is how much fun we had together. How many times we laughed together. How every little everyday task could become an adventure, if you approached it the right way.
I love you, Dad. I'll practice my fountain pose for you.
