Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day
Recently, we have been inundated with a spate of commercials advertising the staple gifts for Father’s Day: ties, tools, colognes, razors, electronics, fishing gear, car care products, etc. Most traditional Father’s Day gifts are practical by nature, especially the überpractical 10-piece ratchet set, GPS, cologne-dispensing tie (sold only in the finest stores in Europe). But Father’s Day isn’t about being practical; it’s about being personal. The day is about recognizing Fathers in personal ways that show love and appreciation for who dad is and what dad does.
21 years ago, I celebrated my first Father’s Day. I was all of 19 years old. For Father’s Day that year, I received my first ulcer. Needless to say, I enjoyed the card more than the gift.
I have two wonderful daughters, Samantha and Dani. They are two of the joys of my life (and I didn’t just put that in because I know they’ll be reading this), along with my dried slug collection and my love of Scandinavian-Asian-Cajun-Russian cuisine.
Over the years, I have received numerous gifts commemorating my role as dad. My earliest Father’s Day gifts and cards were, of course, purchased by my wonderful wife, Liz. Understanding that my daughters, at their very young age, had neither the motor skills needed to sign a charge slip nor the ability to fully appreciate the nuances of the rhyme and cadence of Father’s Day card prose, Liz did all the shopping for my special day. I am ever grateful for this, as when Samantha and Dani were very young, the only experience they had with giving had to be followed up by rigorous cleanings (did I mention that they were very generous?).
As Samantha and Dani got older, and could prove that their messier gift-giving days were over, they assumed responsibility over the whole what-shall-we-do/get-for-dad-this-Father's-Day gift selection process. They have cooked me breakfasts, made me cards, purchased me numerous gifts, and taken me out to movies and meals. They have given me puppets, movies, a harmonica, an MP3 player, and a DVD player. Of all the gifts I have received, some of my favorites were home-made gift certificates. These promissory notes were usually for chores they should have been doing all along but had neglected, for chores they knew I would never ask them to do, or for chores they had no intention of doing (such as assisting me with my slug-collecting or slug-drying endeavors). They say it’s the thought that counts, but if that were so, I’m thinking that the gift certificates would have had dollar amounts and store names on them.
I very much appreciate my daughters. They make me enjoy fatherhood even more than I enjoy writing humorous essays. And I believe that the best gifts they have ever given me are forgiveness for my shortcomings as a father and unconditional love. Practical? Yes. Personal? You bet. And far better than any gift certificate or electronic device or day of collecting slugs for drying.
Here’s looking at you, Samantha and Dani. You two make me very glad to be a dad.
21 years ago, I celebrated my first Father’s Day. I was all of 19 years old. For Father’s Day that year, I received my first ulcer. Needless to say, I enjoyed the card more than the gift.
I have two wonderful daughters, Samantha and Dani. They are two of the joys of my life (and I didn’t just put that in because I know they’ll be reading this), along with my dried slug collection and my love of Scandinavian-Asian-Cajun-Russian cuisine.
Over the years, I have received numerous gifts commemorating my role as dad. My earliest Father’s Day gifts and cards were, of course, purchased by my wonderful wife, Liz. Understanding that my daughters, at their very young age, had neither the motor skills needed to sign a charge slip nor the ability to fully appreciate the nuances of the rhyme and cadence of Father’s Day card prose, Liz did all the shopping for my special day. I am ever grateful for this, as when Samantha and Dani were very young, the only experience they had with giving had to be followed up by rigorous cleanings (did I mention that they were very generous?).
As Samantha and Dani got older, and could prove that their messier gift-giving days were over, they assumed responsibility over the whole what-shall-we-do/get-for-dad-this-Father's-Day gift selection process. They have cooked me breakfasts, made me cards, purchased me numerous gifts, and taken me out to movies and meals. They have given me puppets, movies, a harmonica, an MP3 player, and a DVD player. Of all the gifts I have received, some of my favorites were home-made gift certificates. These promissory notes were usually for chores they should have been doing all along but had neglected, for chores they knew I would never ask them to do, or for chores they had no intention of doing (such as assisting me with my slug-collecting or slug-drying endeavors). They say it’s the thought that counts, but if that were so, I’m thinking that the gift certificates would have had dollar amounts and store names on them.
I very much appreciate my daughters. They make me enjoy fatherhood even more than I enjoy writing humorous essays. And I believe that the best gifts they have ever given me are forgiveness for my shortcomings as a father and unconditional love. Practical? Yes. Personal? You bet. And far better than any gift certificate or electronic device or day of collecting slugs for drying.
Here’s looking at you, Samantha and Dani. You two make me very glad to be a dad.
Labels: dad, daryl, daughters, Day, Father's, gifts, Trowbridge
Monday, January 19, 2009
Inequality of the Sexes Justified
Everyone pretends there’s no disparity when it comes to the sexes. We say that women can do the same work men do and that they should receive equal pay for equal work. They claim that, other than anatomy, there’s really no difference between guys and gals. To that, I say, “Bull!”
Significant differences exist between males and females—and they should exist. I’m a dad, the father of two grown daughters. I raised my girls to believe the above sentiments. Heck, I actually thought I believed them myself. But then my daughters changed.
My daughters discovered “woman’s” undergarments. Now, I had discovered these in my early teen years (as a spectator only, of course), and I was quite impressed. I am not so impressed now that my daughters wear these items, themselves.
I remember shopping with my wife for my daughters’ “big girl panties” when we were potty training the girls. These undergarments had teddy bears, cartoon characters, kittens, flowers, polka-dots, butterflies—decidedly un-grownup decorations. They came in innocent colors like white and pink or, perhaps, a combination of the two.
Later, we moved on to the training bras (I never was quite sure what event their chests were training for, but my wife assured me that the training tops were necessary). This was not a fun time for me. No dad thinks his little girls are ready for upper torso support. But at least there was a modicum of comfort in knowing that these “bras” were still innocent even when my daughters wanted us to purchase the “bras” and panties in sets. These articles of clothing were still child-like enough, so I could deal with them.
As my daughters got into their middle teen years, I was no longer part of the USC, the Underwear Selection Committee. My checkbook was still involved, but my presence was no longer required. It was about this time that a different type of undergarment began to appear in my home. Gone were the pastels. Gone were the cartoons. Gone was the “cuteness.” Gone was half the material!
My daughters went from full-coverage to “cheekies” (one even occasionally wears—shudder—thongs). They wear crimson red, jet black, and leopard print panties with push-up Wonder—as in, it’s a wonder those things stay in—Bras. Some are lacey, some have “cutsie” cartoon characters, and some come with provocative words written in strategic (and inappropriate) locations. These are not panties that any father’s daughters should be wearing (or, in some cases, hardly wearing).
Here’s the difference between boys and girls in this regard: if I had had sons instead of daughters and they decided to progress from Bob the Builder or Spiderman underwear to “tidy whities” to boxers, I wouldn’t have any problem. For this reason alone, it’s okay for boys to grow up, but not for girls. I know it’s sexist, but it’s the way it should be. Ask any father with daughters. They’ll tell you.
Significant differences exist between males and females—and they should exist. I’m a dad, the father of two grown daughters. I raised my girls to believe the above sentiments. Heck, I actually thought I believed them myself. But then my daughters changed.
My daughters discovered “woman’s” undergarments. Now, I had discovered these in my early teen years (as a spectator only, of course), and I was quite impressed. I am not so impressed now that my daughters wear these items, themselves.
I remember shopping with my wife for my daughters’ “big girl panties” when we were potty training the girls. These undergarments had teddy bears, cartoon characters, kittens, flowers, polka-dots, butterflies—decidedly un-grownup decorations. They came in innocent colors like white and pink or, perhaps, a combination of the two.
Later, we moved on to the training bras (I never was quite sure what event their chests were training for, but my wife assured me that the training tops were necessary). This was not a fun time for me. No dad thinks his little girls are ready for upper torso support. But at least there was a modicum of comfort in knowing that these “bras” were still innocent even when my daughters wanted us to purchase the “bras” and panties in sets. These articles of clothing were still child-like enough, so I could deal with them.
As my daughters got into their middle teen years, I was no longer part of the USC, the Underwear Selection Committee. My checkbook was still involved, but my presence was no longer required. It was about this time that a different type of undergarment began to appear in my home. Gone were the pastels. Gone were the cartoons. Gone was the “cuteness.” Gone was half the material!
My daughters went from full-coverage to “cheekies” (one even occasionally wears—shudder—thongs). They wear crimson red, jet black, and leopard print panties with push-up Wonder—as in, it’s a wonder those things stay in—Bras. Some are lacey, some have “cutsie” cartoon characters, and some come with provocative words written in strategic (and inappropriate) locations. These are not panties that any father’s daughters should be wearing (or, in some cases, hardly wearing).
Here’s the difference between boys and girls in this regard: if I had had sons instead of daughters and they decided to progress from Bob the Builder or Spiderman underwear to “tidy whities” to boxers, I wouldn’t have any problem. For this reason alone, it’s okay for boys to grow up, but not for girls. I know it’s sexist, but it’s the way it should be. Ask any father with daughters. They’ll tell you.
Labels: bras, daughters, panties, Underwear
