father's day

I’m not confident when it comes to celebrating Father’s Day. I didn’t live with my Dad much past two, and even when I saw him regularly from the age of eight onwards, I don’t remember spending a Father’s Day with him, or ever making him a card. As an adult that’s changed, but my dad’s an old hippy at heart and the commercialism of Father’s Day doesn’t interest him, so I usually just go and visit him to say hi and give him a hug.

I love my dad. He might not have really parented me, but I feel like I intuitively understand him, and there are some uncanny similarities between us. We share the same dry, slightly ironic sense of humour. We love reading, we’re both short sighted, and there’s definitely a family resemblance between us.

During the week I rang him and invited him over for a cup of tea on Sunday afternoon. “It’s Father’s Day” I said, in case he hadn’t realised. He thought that was a lovely idea, and we agreed that he (and my step-mum) would come over some time after two.

We went to church in the morning and when we arrived home the girls got busy finishing off their gifts for Paddy, and I started tidying up and getting some food ready. I hadn’t made elaborate plans. I knew Dad would be happy with a cup of tea and a bite of pretty much anything. But the girls were excited and Isobella said “I’m going to make a Father’s Day party!!”

Her enthusiasm was hard to ignore. I got down a few party things from up in the pantry. We blew up some balloons and set the table with party plates and napkins, blowers and chocolates. Isobella made a card for my dad, and picked a flower from the garden for him. We attached balloons to two chairs at one end of the table, and made two special settings, one for Paddy, and one for my dad. I made pikelets and put out a bowl of chips. It wasn’t a huge effort, but it was special, and the girls were really excited.

Three o’clock came and went, as did four o’clock. My dad and step-mum are usually pretty relaxed about time, so I didn’t worry. I swept the floor, unloaded the dishwasher. At five o’clock I texted Dad. “How far away are you?” I asked him. The pikelets were getting cold, and afternoon tea time was about to morph into dinner time. He texted back “30 minutes” and I realised that they hadn’t even left yet. The disappointment bit hard.

But it was too late. I rang and told him. He would have jumped in the car and come out straight away, but we don’t live ten minutes down the road from them anymore, and by the time they got here the moment would have been gone. They’d had friends pop in and I hadn’t been exact enough when I arranged the time with him.

We have a good friend and her twin boys living downstairs from us. I walked down to find her, blinking away the tears, and invited them up for a party. The boys' eyes lit up when I said the word "party!" and the fact that they were there made up for the girls’ disappointment that my dad wasn’t.

We’d set all the places at our big table, and it seemed ridiculous now that they weren’t coming . But once we were all sitting down there was only one place that was missing a person. Suddenly I realised who that place was for. I got a candle and took my postcard of Rembrandt’s Prodigal son down from the kitchen window sill.  I placed the card and the candle in front of the empty table setting, lit the candle, and had my own quiet moment remembering my perfect, heavenly parent.

If this seems all a bit too raw and personal, then think about it this way. This story isn’t just my story. It’s the story of every person who has ever lost or been let down by a parent, which is pretty much all of humanity.

You were four, and your father left on plane and you haven’t seen him since. You were eight and your father died, and then when you were a teenager, your mother died. You were three or four and you were asked to help at your older sister’s birthday party. You tried, and failed, and the disproval you were shown in that moment has reverberated for nearly sixty years. You weren’t good enough.

I like to think that I’ve figured a few things out about myself, but Sunday reminded me that not very far below the surface I’m just a little girl who wanted her daddy. In that one ordinary moment, a simple lack of communication, the past came flooding back. And I realised that my relationship with my dad is not as straight forward I thought it was.

But nothing’s ever as straight forward as we’d like it to be, and I can live with that. I’m lucky to have a relationship with him at all, and it means the world to me that he loves my girls. When it comes to being a Grandpa, he’s a natural.

And pain is not all bad. I’d rather be someone who feels pain than someone who ignores it. If we let it, pain will teach us empathy and make us soft-hearted.  As much as we try to hide our tears and pretend that everything is fine, pain never really goes away. It has a sneaky way of manifesting itself in surprising ways, and if left completely unacknowledged, can return later in life and suddenly derail us.

This might be raw but it's important. The story of me and my crazy family is a good one. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without it. And the pain that has accompanied it at different times has forced me down a path that has led me, ultimately, to knowing and understanding myself far better than I would otherwise.

And we can all do with more of that.