Meredith Spidel’s blog, The Mom of the Year, is a beautiful account of the imperfect mom. Or, is it an account of a beautifully imperfect mom? See, it doesn’t matter. When you’re engaged and accountable and can write about it all like Meredith, you’ve eared the title.
I spent Father’s Day much the same way I spent Christmas – sick on the couch.
But unlike Christmas, I had the World Cup to occupy my waking hours. Jesus is just all right and all, but a month of soccer? It was just what the doctor ordered between whooping coughs and snotty noses. Even Jesus could get behind this.
Elise, as she did last time, got sick at just the same time I did.
This time, we could binge on soccer matches. Last time, it was a marathon session on Bones, season 1. I took a course from Dr. Kathy Reichs at UNC Charlotte. I saw things that haunt me to this day. She’d show up slides while she ate a sandwich.
Every dad must return to the mortal status at some sad point in his life.
My dad’s moment came the day he gritted out an F-bomb while driving a nail – and taking his thumb along for the ride – when I was a kid. I’d never heard anyone outside the playground say what I thought was the worst bad word ever.
I’ve reverted to mortal status with each of my girls, although I can’t pinpoint the exact time or date.
They know now I can’t lift a house. They know now I can’t wrestle an alligator. They know now I don’t know everything about everything. I can’t slam dunk. Or hit a grand slam. Or punt the ball to the moon.