The Lamb’s Blood Never Works

I hate Father's Day. There I said it. It sneaks up on me every year like a three hundred pound convict sneaks up on the little guy in the prison showers. This dreaded, greeting card, small gift, and "Are you still gonna make dinner, dad" day looms on the horizon now like some paternal angel of death and I wish I could put lamb's blood on the outside doorframe to make it pass by.

Though I biologically own the title of, "Father" it just feels awkward and unearned. I mean, wasn't there supposed to be some kind of training camp? If so, no one told me to write my name in my underwear and get on the bus. Now, if I was supposed to learn from the male authority figures in my life, my kids should sign up for therapy, electroshock treatment, and a Thorazine lobotomy right now. If the male influences in my life were to write a textbook on fatherhood it would be called, "Ducking Child Support, Domestic Violence, Poverty, and I Shoulda Wore a Condom: The Complete Guide to Shallowgenepool's Rearing From A Paternal Perspective." The title's a bit wordy, but it fits.

I guess it's my total lack of positive paternal influence that makes me feel more awkward than a nun at a sex toy trade show when it comes to anything focusing on me being a father. I remember cutting the umbilical cord on my first born and thinking, "Cut the cord? That's what my mom called getting the electricity turned off because her fuck-stick husband spent the bill money on a meth binge." It wasn't exactly the thought that should have crossed my mind in that situation, but it was a reflex borne of my life's philosophy, "Expect to get fucked. Hope there's lube." That was the only kind of cord I was ever willing to cut and I made sure that it was.

It's weird how my childhood memories have attached themselves like time-resistant lamprey's to my adult life. When my kids complain about not being able to go to the movies I am taken back to when I would have killed to get some movie theater popcorn. Fuck the movie. I was hungry, a lot and buttery popcorn would have been caloric bliss. My wife has explained to my kids how I had a rough childhood, but I don't think they really get it. This I understand, because kids of all ages assume that the autobiographical stories parents tell them about their own childhoods are purely the stuff of hyperbolic fairy tales minus the dragons and trolls (unfortunately the evil step-parent sometimes throws in an ugly plot twist). Besides, the wreckage of my past is just that, it's mine. No one else should have to partake in the feast of misery that I was served as a kid. I didn't want to serve my family fucking leftovers from my own personal doggie bag of bad memories.

So, why am I writing this whine fest to my Prose family? It's simple. I don't think that I am the only father out there who dislikes Father's Day for parallel reasons. I write this to say, "You're not alone and as awkward as it is, you'll smile at the gifts your kids give, maybe have breakfast at IHOP, and hope for some Father's Day Fornication when the kids go to bed." It's okay to feel out of place on Father's Day. It's your day, after all. The important thing is to make sure that you aren't an awkward and insignificant presence in the lives of your kiddos the other 364 days of the year.