It was lovely to celebrate Father’s Day yesterday. Waking up to breakfast in bed. Being presented with various cards and presents lovingly hand-crafted by the kids. Being taken out for lunch, paid for by the family. (Although it was charged to a credit card that I pay for. So technically I took myself out to lunch, but let’s not quibble. It’s the thought that counts.)
Ultimately, though, Father’s Day is just that – one day. I’m a dad for 364 other days during the year too, and I prefer to think of the day as more of a celebration of the fact that I have three young children who leave me beaming with pride and wanting to be a better dad to them every day.
I’m equally proud of all three, but I’m particularly pleased with our youngest, Kara, at the moment. She started potty training, largely at her own insistence, a week ago. That’s six months earlier than both boys and she already has weeing down pat, a feat of which she is hugely proud. The most common line heard in our house this week has been, “Daddy/Mummy! Wee potty! I did that!” accompanied by a smile and a laugh.
She also had a pretty good go at wielding a pair of chopsticks at lunch yesterday. Given her history of throwing things, I was less worried about her dropping her food than I was about a craftily whittled chopstick being hurled, javelin-style, at someone’s back. But no. She observed us, then gave it a pretty good go. Two years old, and she’s already nearly as good with them as her uncle, who has a 35-year head start on her and still prefers a fork and spoon.
Anyhow, I’m loving watching my little girl growing up. For me, every day is Father’s Day. Even the ones involving messy potty training accidents.