Whatever You Want Honey

Originally posted on June 5, 2007 to AmbassadorKen.blogspot.com for The Blog Exchange program.

In honor of Father’s Day, I decided to write a poem about my experiences. Most are not the norm, others are short melodramatic recounts of what happened and yet others are an edited version of what I was thinking.

Being a Dad

For as long as I can recall, my heart dreamed of having a child,
Not a boy to carry my name but a girl that’s sweet and mild.
Never the fanatic of all the ball games or of tinkering with some cars,
But of lying in a pastel field contently dreaming with the stars.

Then I wed my dearest friend, set off to foreign lands,
To relieve our discontented minds of the work done by our hands.
We worked hard and played a lot and failed a pregnancy or two,
Kept trying to conceive but to no avail, still childless and so blue.

A call came from someone I’d not talked to in years,
Who asked us a question that brought us both to tears.
We accepted her gift of a child, who was as of yet, unborn,
But fear of reprieve of this gift kept us somewhat forlorn.

Til the morning came a boy was born with a medical atrocity,
We welcomed him in our lives, “Still precious.” our philosophy.
He spent a month or more encapsulated in a wall of glass,
To touch him and stroke his face was all that we could ask.

The next few years became a blur as children grow so fast,
From doctor’s care to emergency rooms, it was such a blast,
Skinned knees, daredevil acts like running in front of cars,
Surprises me to this day that I din’t wind up in the bars.

Talks of manners and good conduct and how to treat a lady,
Asking the pastor on Sunday, loudly, about the creation of a baby.
Inquiring to me about Yu Gi Oh and then telling me I’m wrong,
Other quips and foibles that he spoke could be the content of a song.

With all the dangers and death’s close calls experienced by my son,
It’s a wonder he can still breathe, eat, sleep, play or even run.
Still all his pranks and tender hugs, makes me glad that he’s alive.
All this energy and quirkyness packed into a spirited boy of five.

I’m not superdad, the king of the world or a special breed of man,
I’m just a guy who has a son and is doing whatever he can,
To raise my boy in such a way to win the perfect bride,
So he can experience the joys of life with a child at his side.

As I was reading this to my wife and best friend, life happened. My son threw a major screaming tantrum, took off his shirt and whipped it around in circles like he was brandishing a whip and snapped it at my wife. Then proceeded to throw it in the air until it was stuck at the top of a cabinet.

Isn’t being a dad great?!

-D

I have spent numerous days and nights on a new client’s web site, which is why I haven’t posted in a few days. It is nearly completed. I need to set up their shopping cart yet, but still have not gotten all of the components that I need.

But, that is not to say that the site is lacking. I feel it is one of my better designs and it was a true joint effort of the client, too. He worked hard, put in some rough hours (I’m sure), lost some sweat, probably tears and felt stress akin to what I am used to on occasion.

He is off this week at a SGMA event in Nevada.

I am certain that he is having fun and making a boat load of sales.

Anyway, check out this site and give me your feedback by posting a comment.

Stretch A Minute

-D

Unfortunately, my bio dad and new step-mom had to leave. They left about two hours ago. My bio dad, who I get my gentle quietness from, was looking good. He lost a few pounds and continues to be the big teddy bear (the just right size for hugging kind).

My step-mom works with children everyday and really connects with my little tornado. She has a knack for making him behave and listen. Don’t misunderstand me, he still bounces from one thing to the next like he is a rubberball in a cement mixer. However, she tamed him like a circus lion.

It was just magic the way she handles him. I am pretty good, but I could sure learn a thing or two from this seasoned veteran of pre-school combat.

Our time with them today was short but very cherished. We all enjoyed our time together. Dad took to Sydnie (the dog) like she were his own and Mom took to Fi Fi (the cat) like they were best buds. [And if you read the cat’s blog, you’d know he is barely tolerable of his servants.]

He did, however, wreak (and I mean wreak!) his revenge for all the petting and cooing over him by depositing some stinky love (of the fecal nature) on her shirt.

She cleaned her shirt, the cat stepped in in while in his litterbox and I bathed him afterwards. Lot’s of fun!!! It was, in a word, WRETCHED. But cats will be cats! Oh, well…

-D

Last evening, I worked until 2:30 am. I got a lot done! I did it in preparation for one of my dads coming to visit with one of my moms.

Ok. I’ll make it quick, my biological mom and dad had two boys, my brother and me. Then split up when I was two and they both remarried. My mom and step-dad had a little girl and then adopted us boys. They had another girl a few years later.

I did not see my bio dad for about 13 years. We went to a reunion and “met” him again.

I rekindled a relationship with him in 1997 after moving several hundred miles away from my “home” in PA. He became a Christian shortly before we started speaking.

His second wife passed away about four years ago from deteriorated health and he remarried again. My brother and I went to his wedding, it was beautiful. The chapel was adorable and his new bride glowed.

Now, he and his wife are on their way and should be here in minutes. He called when he was about four miles away.

I am looking forward to our time together. The doorbell chimes, I must go!

-D

This post is courtesy of the Blog Exchange Program.

For years, my dad and I communicated almost exclusively through jokes.

Really bad, wildly inappropriate, often detestable jokes.

Every Sunday morning at about 7:30, the phone would ring and it would start. We’d exchange a few pleasantries and then let the jokes fly. Dad would save up all the most offensive, distasteful jokes he’d learned from farmers in the past week as he traveled around the county to the big dairy farms as a NY State Milk Tester – and I worked with divers. No offense to the divers out there, but the one’s I came in contact with were a deliciously crude, foul-mouthed lot. The source of my best material.

Following this call, I’d get ready for church and Dad would head off to the rounds of auctions and estate sales that he and my step-mother enjoy so much.

Every week. Like clockwork.

It was not always this way.

I think the longest Dad and I went without talking was 8 months – not because we were angry with one another, but because we just didn’t know how to communicate. I wasn’t like my older brothers – and by the time I was old enough to be of any real physical use on the farm, my parents divorced and sold the property. Thwarted, just as my turn came along.

Ah. The Divorce.

One week after my 12th birthday, my parents assembled the five of us at the dining room table for The Announcement. I should have suspected something was up; what other reason could there have been to drag my brothers home from college? It was all handled so matter-of-fact-ly, and there’d never been any ugly outbursts – it all seemed so unlikely…and so unlike you’d see it on TV or the movies. Just a quiet end to 23 years of marriage.

After they explained what was happening, when Dad was moving out, who was going where and when – all so clinically – I wandered away from the table and headed to my room. A knock at my door let me know that Mom was coming rub my back and reassure me how we were going to get through this together.

But no.

Dad came in, and I can’t imagine how awkward this must have been for him. As awkward as it was for me, perhaps. He didn’t have any words to help either of us. We just sat there, in silence. This was the first of our not speaking.

The next four years of mandatory weekend visits were torture for both of us, but we put on the brave face. He didn’t know what to make of this son of his who was more song-and-dance-man than hunter-gatherer. I didn’t know what to do with this old coot who didn’t know Sondheim from soufflé. Eventually, we’d just sit in silence, watching the TV or reading our way through the weekends. We both told ourselves we were trying, but we weren’t. Not really.

College gave us both the excuse of “too busy”. Convenient, really. And I was busy.

But not that busy.

I moved several states away after college and the calls dwindled. It wasn’t until I came home for my sister’s wedding – I now the old man of 26 – that it happened. Dad and I had the oddest moment when we stepped up to the bar at the reception and ordered exactly the same drink, in stereo. We looked at each other and didn’t say anything. I’d never before in my life realized how much I sounded like my Dad and I don’t think it’d ever occurred to him that I’d actually grown up to be a…well, an adult of some variety.

My brother, the mountain man/artist/wannabe hippie, just busted out laughing at the two of us. Within the hour, the three of us were out on the back steps of the reception hall, swapping ribald stories in graphic one-ups-man-ship. You never know where you’ll find common ground.

Soon after, the calls started from both side. And the jokes…so many dreadful, groan-worthy jokes. For a long time, this was enough and worked for us. Sunday became our easy point for contact, reliable and reassuring in its way. And we were trying. And succeeding.

Some years down the road, Dad and my step-mom made the courageous trip to New Orleans to visit me. Seeing me among my adopted family here in the South seemed to make it somehow better for him. He didn’t care for the city, but he understood why I stayed. And that was OK.

Our calls may not come like clockwork anymore, but that’s OK too. The conversations are longer and richer and less tasteless, for lack of a better expression. My step-mom marvels that she rarely has to leave the room anymore when we’re on the phone.

My Dad turned 77 last week, and our conversation was far too short for the occasion. There were some 20 odd members of our blended family (and after this many years, the line has blurred mercifully) demanding his time and attention. This Sunday, we will talk again. There may not be too many off-color jokes, but I’ll be sure to save up a pun or two in his honor.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad…did you hear the one about the two…?

About the Author:
Ken of AmbassadorKen.BlogSpot.com authored this post. He finds inspiration even in the minutia. He has an eye for the obvious that most tend to overlook as background noise but are the true reasons for life itself.

Write on Ken!

-D