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During Father Day, my husband went missing and he disappeared about five hours leaving the ceremony which my kids and I had struggled to do. It was already 7.30 p.m and he was coming home with a group of rowdy friends and with some unforeseen errands, and I finally snapped. What I then proceeded to do he will never forget.
Working in a full-time capacity and being a mom to two little boys is like enduring a marathon on a daily basis. My two boys Jake and Tommy are six and four respectively and their energy can be equated to small tornadoes.
With preparing them in time for school, arranging their after school activities, ensuring the house does not completely crumble and then working a full eight hours at my marketing job, I hardly know how to breathe at all.
Well, my husband Brad is well-working enough, I must say. He has a heavy job in construction that makes him busy throughout the day. However as soon as he gets home then here is where our household systems do part company.
Whereas I am assisting with homeworks, preparing dinner, washing clothes, and putting the boys to bed, Brad spends most of his time on the couch with his PlayStation controller in one hand or his phone in another hand.
When I request his assistance at bath time the response is as follows, he is too tired after his work. By the time I say to him, read some bedtime stories, he will insist that he has to relax a little bit.
Will you be able to assist Jake in his math? I questioned him a month ago.
You got that stuff, Baby, he answered, as if he was not looking up at his game.
Brad does not love our kids. He does indeed. He glows when they rush to embrace him after work and he is really proud when they show him their paintings or what happened at school that day.
However, he just fails when it is time to do the real work, that of being a parent. Rather, he spends time with his friends over the weekend, playing video games till late hours and pretends that taking care of things in the house is my personal responsibility. It seems to him the job of a dad is just to be there when things get fun and leave all the rest to a different person.
I have told him many times that I work all day. However, I still get a home and take care of the house and children.
But, yeah, you were just more naturally good at that sort of thing.
I wanted Brad to become more involved and more supportive to our family. I tried to make him understand that partnership is not only the fun part of the work and sharing problems as well.
However, to be frank, I was only not aware of how severe the problem was until the incident during the Father Day opened my eyes wide.
It began several weeks before the real vacation. Tommy and Jake had just been fantasizing on what they would like to carry in order to make their dad feel special.
Mom can we have pancakes on Dad? One day Jake questioned me in the afternoon when I was cleaning their bedroom.
I would like to paint a picture of our family to him!” Tommy added.
I melted when I saw them brainstorming how they could express their love to their father. They were so concerned with having a perfect father day to him.
And You say, What if we make him cards as well? Jake suggested. Our handprints we gave to them!”
And we could get him something that he really wants Tommy said.
They were contagious. The following weeks we were correcting and planing how to surprise Dad on Father Day Day.
We chose to design handmade cards using their tiny hand prints and colorings on them. I also assisted them to plan his favorite breakfast. Cinnamon sugar french toast, scrambled eggs and maple sausage. Then I recalled the fact that Brad always was moaning that he doesn’t get the chance to visit the local classic car show which takes place each summer.
He used to say with a sigh as we drove past the old-fashioned autos that were on exhibition in the city, I never get to go to those things any more.
I therefore purchased three tickets on the internet as I thought this would be an ideal father-son activity. When I explained to the boys the surprise they were excited.
This is going to make Dad happy! cried Jake.
Oh, we will do so many lookin cars!” Tommy contributed, with wide awe-filled eyes.
I visualized Brad smiling upon the realization of the fact that his sons had put a lot of thought and efforts to make his day special. I imagined him being proud and thankful after knowing how much they loved him.
I was however unaware that I was placing us all on the path to the most disappointing day of the year. And now it was Father Day morning; and the boys were up at break of day, and were as full of excitement as though they were bouncing against the sides of the wall. Since six in the morning they had been discussing plans, and giggling mysteriously, in their room.
And, “hasn’t come time to wake Dad?” Jake made a request after every five minutes.
May we now give him the cards? Tommy exclaimed, and held his hand-made object as though it were of gold. The previous night I had been busy in silent preparation.
The French toast batter had been prepared in the fridge, the sausages were placed on a plate, whereas the eggs were cracked on the plate and were ready to be scrambled. I even would have switched on the coffee machine so that Brad could be greeted with the aroma of his favorite dark roast coffee in the morning.
Once with the breakfast tray and cards we crept into our bedroom at 8 a.m. The boys were hardly able to control themselves.
Happy Father Day’s Daddy! and with one loud yell leaped to the bed.
But Brad awoke in an ill-humour. Not the grateful, moved paternal parent I had expected. He wiped his eyes and glared at being awakened.
What time do you call it? he grumbled.
It is Father Day! Jake put in the hands of Brad, pushing his home-made card toward him. Just see what I have made you!”
Brad almost looked at the card and put it down. Next Tommy gave away his drawing. It was a photo of our family and at the top was written something like I LOVE DAD in slanting letters. It looks good, friend, smiled Brad, scarcely glancing at it at all.
When the boys saw their faces fall a little I thought my heart would break, then my heart rose with theirs again when I came in with the breakfast-tray.
You think we did not make your favorites! Tommy pronounced.
Brad filled his own mouth with the food with little trophy. Not a word of “thank you.” No this is good. No sense of gratefulness of the work we all worked. He simply ate mindlessly as he was scanning his phone. Suddenly he got up, and throwing on some clothes, said, “I shall be along in 30 minutes.” I left the store without something.
No but Dad, we have planned today! Jake protested.
Hubble are we going to see cars! Tommy added.
Sure, sure: when I get back we’ll do that, Brad was moving toward the door. My partner thinks she just needs to get something real quick.
This was 30 minutes, which became two hours. Then three. Then five. I texted him back, The boys are wondering where you are. How soon shall I see you home?”
No response.
I made a call but it was straight to voicemail.
The children did not stop making inquiries by telling me, “When will Dad be back? Is it now the car show time? And I still was making excuses partly checking my phone trying to hide the fact that I was getting angrier and disappointed.
At 2 p.m, We had missed the car show altogether and I knew it. The boys were waiting to it all these weeks.
Mom, shall we still see the cars? Jake asked. I crawled to their staring feet and my heart broke. I apologise, gentlemen. We must have missed it today,” I said.
But the father, Tommy said softly, “But, father, he said he would.”
You know, baby. I know.”
At 7.30 p.m. when I was finishing up with the boys brushing their teeth and failing to stop the almost-to-the-point-of-crying grizzled look on them as I was putting them to bed, the front door slammed open.
Brad came home at last.
He was not alone, however, in that vision.
Through the bathroom door I heard loud talking, people laughing and heavy footsteps of several persons tramping around our house.
“Hey, babe! Dinner! what will it be?” Brad yelled back in the living room, and everyone laughed more. It is a Father Day!
I went outside to see that his six friends were lying on our furniture Chuck, Greg, Rob, Ben, Mike and Tony. They were all noisy, perspiring, and being half-drunk on what they had been doing during the day.
The boys listened to the noise and came out in pajamas looking baffled and upset. Where, dad? Where had you been? That was a question parted with by Jake.
Brad was too occupied doing a high five with his friends to actually pay attention though. One of them even placed his hand on my shoulder as though I was some sort of a waitress. Happy Father!s Day! and everybody yelled, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
I was there just staring as my kids kept on trying to get the attention of the father and the drunk friends were sprawling in our house.
It is then something within me gave way. I faced in the opposite direction and gazed at every single one of the boys with who Brad was friends with as calm as possible.
Now, just the time,” said I jocularly. We should celebrate fatherhood in the proper way.
I was right at Chuck. You are washing up breakfast dishes. These are the ones that are still in the sink since this morning when my sons prepared a special meal to their father.”
Chuck was puzzled. “Uh, what?”
I once more clearly repeated, “The dishes.” Kitchen sink now.
Next I addressed myself to Greg. I am telling you two bedtime stories to-night. Boys have been waiting all day when somebody will take them to attention.”
Greg mumbled, “I am not a kid thing kind of guy.”
“To-night you do,” I said.
I gave Rob a kitchen cleaning rag on the counter. It is your turn on the bathroom. Two small boys that translates to two puddles near the toilet. Good luck on that.”
Then I reached out a hand and caught Brad by the shoulder, and glared into his face.
“And you are going to cook dinner to everybody,” I said to him. “There is pasta in the pantry. The fridge has vegetables that are to be chopped. The true fathers are multi-taskers.”
None of them were believing their eyes.
“Betty, come on,” Brad was beginning to say. “It is Father Day. I only need to chill with my friends.”
I stopped him off in a moment. “You’ve had all day to rest, Brad, and we have been here waiting till you came. You have selected your option of what to do on your Father Day. This is my own.”
“You are absurd,” said Mike.
I said, “What is absurd is that a father leaves his children on a Father Day and expects his wife to cook things to accommodate his drinking friends.”
Everything fell silent in the room except when Jake and Tommy whispered to each other in the hallway.
“And this is what is going to happen,” I went on. “Either all of you have to clean up, making this day something different, or you may leave. However, nobody can have his dinner till all the myriad things have been passed.”
Brad turned to his friends, and was evidently embarrassed. “Guys, perhaps we must simply—“
“No,” I broke in. “They’re staying. And why are they here perfecting fatherhood? Perfect. We will demonstrate to my sons what real fathers do in fact.”
And the thing is this: They have literally done it. Haltingly and with much moaning they did so.
As they went to work, I sat on the couch flipping on the slideshow that I had prepared on behalf of Brad on my laptop.
It had pictures that I had taken that day. It pictured boys having breakfast in the morning and holding up their “Car Show Today!” sign, and when they were holding up their Father Day cards in front of the garage where we were to pack up all the things to go adventuring.
All could be seen as a photograph of the empty space where Brad was to stand. The absent father in all of its meaningful moments.
By the time the slideshow was done, everybody was quiet.
One of Brad’s friends, Ben, scratched his throat. “Dang, man. Man those kids did not hold back.”
“Yeah,” said Tony in the same tone. “I should have seen the breakfast, that looked pretty amazing.”
Soon enough, Brad got to be alone since his friends had to leave, making embarrassing excuses and refusing to look at him in the eyes.
That evening Brad spoke little. He assisted to settle the boys in bed, and seated himself on the couch, the very image of a man who had been robbed of all his dignity.
In the morning he made apology. Not a “sorry-babe” phrase but a real apology to me and the boys.
Over breakfast he warned Jake and Tommy, saying to them: “I screwed up. You should have had daddy here with you yesterday.”
And I do not maintain that it is possible to change overnight, yet I will make one assertion. A week passed since Father Day and the boys had bedtime stories each and every night from him.
Guilt is probably a good motivator once in a while.
