What’s this I hear about Fathers Day?

Fathers get a day? I would think the knowledge that your kids won’t fully appreciate you until you’re long dead would be reward enough. It’s the last word in Last Words.

Father’s Day always sneaks up on me; after I became one as well as back when I still had one of my own. I think the reason for this is because nobody but retailers really give a shit about this particular pre-fabricated holiday. I can hear the meeting now, circa Mad Men season one:

“But we still don’t have a bullshit holiday in June; the tchotchke lobby and the bric-a-brac block are all over us. First person to pull a new, demographically-targeted holiday out of their ass gets a corner office and a dedicated shelf in the executive minifridge.”

Bippity-boppity-boop: Fathers Day.

Unfortunately for the hobby lobby, however, the idea never took off. Some comedian back in the day—I’m thinking George Carlin?—described Fathers Day as: you borrow a buck from your dad, buy him a pack of smokes and hang onto the change. Case closed.

Mothers Day is always a big production, flowers and an expensive meal at her favorite restaurant; Fathers Day is dinner at Chuck-o-Rama instead of Fuddruckers. And a pack of smokes, if your kids love you.

I’m writing this the night before, but so far confidence is not high for a happy Fathers Day this year—no smokes for me! My own dad is long gone and I’ve already written extensively about how I dropped the ball there. But up until now, The Boy has made Fathers Day a real thing out of the cynical marketing scheme with which it began.

But that was before The Missus and I started throwing expectations into the family paradigm. Now, everything is a fucking battle and neither he nor I have any give. It’s the exact same dynamic my mother and I had, and that story didn’t end any too happily.

The Missus does the best she can to keep a happy household when he and I are at loggerheads, but really, it’s like running into a hurricane armed with a handful of helium balloons and a kazoo.

In the last few days, he’s taken to public meltdowns, always with his mother and never when I’m around. So I drew a line in the sand, he stepped over it and kicked it in my face and the shit has been on since then.

Which is not the way I was looking forward to spending this Fathers Day. I knew the time would come when he and I would be estranged—two people as alike as he and I don’t tend to hit it off well over the long run—but I was really hoping to push its advent at least until the kid was in double-digits.

To feel him slipping away at 7 stings like ole slew foot himself.

Karma, Fang; Fang, karma.