Father's Day

Ever since W was born, the idea of "father" has at times consumed my thoughts.  What is a father?  How is he supposed to act?  How is supposed to carry himself in front of his children?  How is he to be different from mom?  How is he to be similar to her?  Why do the children turn to mom when sad or needed to be comforted?  How do I know that I'm doing right by my sons?

There have been a handful of "father's days" that I have celebrated since 2012: December 20; the day W was born.  February 5; the day S was born.  June 16; the first official Father's Day I celebrated.  There are other days as well, but none as significant as Friday, June 8, 2018: the first day I had to be a father.

Friday, June 8, 2018.  The day I had to tell W and S that their uncle died.

Uncle J had been sick for almost two months.  He had been in the hospital for nearly that whole time.  As is his nature, W asked almost daily how Uncle J was feeling, and if he was going to be ok.  C and I decided to be honest with W about Uncle J's condition.  Honest, but gentle, in our words, from the first time we heard of J's hospital admission, through the days and nights of tears and uncertainty, until the end, June 7, 2018.

C and I briefly discussed how and when we were going to tell the boys of Uncle J's death.  I told C that I would tell them.

The boys love going on walks around the neighborhood.  W has to inspect all of the garbage cans placed out on the street for addresses, broken handles and lids, missing wheels, and so much more.  S loves checking out the "ishoners" in all of the alleys.  Although it would interrupt the enjoyment and exploration of the neighborhood to tell the boys of their uncle's passing, it would also be the perfect time to do so.

I offered the boys a shade break under some trees in the neighborhood, a spot where we have often rested, as far back as when W was a baby.  I told him that Uncle J had died last night.  Immediately, his voice changed to sadness.  "Oooohhhh nooooo... he really died?" His voice angry, yet concerned.  I told him yes.  The tears came instantly.  His tears were not of those of a young child refused a toy at a store; a little boy denied an extra sweet; nor of a son learning boundaries and proper behavior through a timeout in a chair.  W's tears were the tears of the devastated.

So you cry.

But more importantly, you let your son cry.  You offer him your arms and you hold him tight.  You make his pain yours, and no one else's.  You answer his questions honestly.  You tell him about heaven.

You love him.

You be the father he needs and wants because that is all that matters.

A