My Sunday Father's Day Feeling

Today is the first Father's Day I have spent living in a house with somebody else's children.  I say "children" even though it is more accurate to describe Joe and Sarah as young adults seeing as how they are 19 and 23 respectively. As I write this, I believe the plan is that they will spend the day with their father who will be in town this weekend.  At least that is my general understanding if I may resort to lawyerly weasel-words.  One of the things that I have learned in this almost full year of step-parenting is that I don't get much information. I don't view this as any statement as to my bona fides or status.  Most of my peers in the League of Fathers that I have consulted have advised me that this is not uncommon.  

I occasionally get asked about how things are going in this area.  Actually, I get asked about this a lot.  It is almost as if there's a line in Vegas on whether I actually pull this stepparent thing off.  Actually, I don't like to use the words "stepfather" or "stepchildren" in describing our status.  Too Brothers Grimm for me I suppose.  The kids don't seem to have a preference one way or the other.  Not that we've discussed that either.

All things being equal, which they never are if you think about it,  I guess I'm doing OK.  I get along pretty well with the kids under my roof.  I've heard some horror stories about living with other peoples' kids.  I wouldn't say that we are exactly reshooting the "Brady Bunch" around here on a routine basis. But I have to say that for the most part things have gone pretty smoothly.  

Having a young woman around has been an interesting and fun experience.  You see, we don't really do girls in my immediate family.  I have brothers. They had sons.  So not only is Sarah my first daughter she is also the first niece amongst any of the brothers.  Not to say that it hasn't been an adjustment.  I knock on doors that are closed nowadays.  I do not open said closed doors until I am admitted.  This is a change from how I was raised.  My brothers and I barged in on each other all the time.  No more barging for me.  

And the other night I came home to a bunch of girls drinking Pimms Cups and all yakking at the same time as they fueled up to go to a drag show of all damn things.  I woke up at 2 am the next morning to the sound of high heels clunking across the hardwood floor.

As you can see my life is very different now.  

Joe takes after his mother.  Not only is he the spitting image of her but he has her same laid back and sweet disposition.  Our relationship is largely defined by our mutual interest in sports.  We have always watch sports on TV together and I went to most of his ballgames when he was a Conway Wampus Cat.  Last Sunday I took him to the finals of his first professional tennis tournament.  I think he's hooked.  So thanks to me he has another vehicle for wasting his time.  That's me leading by example. 

I may be giving voice to my hubris here, but if you asked everybody how I was doing I think I would get a passing score.  Maybe nothing greater than the "Gentleman's C" I mostly pulled at Tulane.  But a passing score nonetheless.  

And if I get a passing score I think it is because I view my role as something along the lines of the Prince of Wales-or Whales- as our Imbecile-in-Chief recently referred to him.  Which is to say that I view my role as more or less ceremonial.  I show up from time-to-time when decorum or the ready availability of an SUV requires my presence.  I pretty much stay in the background which works pretty well for all concerned.  And unlike the real Prince Charles, I don't have to tour factories in an RAF uniform while making lame brained observations with the proletariat such as "My that IS a fine wage." Neither do I have to complain about being tossed by a "skittish mare." In short, the discharge of my duties around here does not require me to be a twit.  

It's not that I am not without my discrete uses.  I provided a house everybody likes.  I also provide the gin which everybody but Joe likes.  At least Joe had better not be liking it.  Now his Mom lets him have a beer now and again.  And so, naturally he drank all of the Dixie I brought back from Covington last summer.  So he's banned from the Dixie.  Likewise, his sister is banned from the bonded McKenna.

This is what passes for me being a disciplinarian.  You gotta draw a line somewhere.  

I may be counted on to have at least a hundred bucks on me at any one time and my credit card has an apparently limitless top end.  The lines of communication seem to be pretty open.  Not that I ever talk to them very often.  We all live in a big house.  Texting is the typical mode of discourse around here.  And if anybody needs me they can usually find me sitting on the porch in my rocker reading and drinking either gin or bourbon as my taste at that particular moment may require.

I help provide.  I stay in the background.  I'm available for consultation on the rare occasion when somebody thinks they need it.  I show up on time.  I mostly keep my mouth shut.  I stay out of the way and let kids be kids.  Until they get into the Dixie that is.

Does that make me the second coming of Fred McMurray?  Hardly.

But I think I'm doing OK.  The "Gentleman's C" worked long ago and far away at Tulane.  It seems to be working in the here and now on Martin Street.  

So far so good.  Happy Father's Day.