It is telling, I suppose, that I needed to check my calendar to confirm my suspicion: The other parental holiday, Father’s Day, is indeed upon us again. Christmas? That is the easy one. It begins in early August when stores start putting trees and decorations out and culminates on Dec. 25 after weeks of online pseudo-theological noodges declaring that Jesus must surely have been born in the spring instead. Easter is a bit trickier since it bounces anywhere from March to April, depending on the date of the first Sunday after the first full moon following the vernal equinox. Nonetheless, people somehow always manage to know when Easter is coming.
Mother’s Day, the day no one dares forget, the day with ads and reminders and floral specials, is always the second Sunday in May each year, and thank you, Anna Jarvis, for that. Father’s Day, though, is always some time after Groundhog Day and before Mexican Independence Day and has all the buildup of a last-minute decision to clean out the sock drawer.
Happy Father’s Day, my dudes.
I have been a father (also known as Dad, Deddy (no, that is not a misspelling), Bestie, Paternal Birth Giver and occasionally “Bruh”) for 26 years now. I have one boy and two girls, whom you faithful readers of this column have read much about through the years. All three love the Lord, serve in our church, have an incredible work ethic and, nonetheless, frequently set my last nerve on fire.
In other words, I am a hardened veteran of The Dad War. In that capacity, then, please allow me to bestow my biblical, practical and experiential wisdom to you men who are more recently enlisted in said war. Heed these lessons intently, soldier. They may well lead to your survival.