Some would say that I’m in a “sweet spot” this Father’s Day. Others would deem it a “bittersweet spot.”
I’m in that transitional phase wherein I am not yet a father-in-law or a grandfather, but I have watched my youngest (only) child transform from a bright-eyed kindergartner into a burning-the-midnight-oil young adult.
(I remember when “young adult” was a literary category, not “someone you can’t claim as a dependent on your income tax much longer.” *Sigh*)
Yes, the future is an alluring blank slate for the earnest Gideon Tyree; but I look up at him and experience the stereotypical fatherly wistfulness of wondering, “Where did the years go?” (Gideon would probably chime in, “I think they’re out cavorting somewhere with your hair.”)
Fathers, I know those diaper changes seem never-ending at the time; but couldn’t Mother Nature put the DMV in charge of slowing down those precious childhood years just a wee bit? (“Your number has come up, sir. Bring your documentation to Window One. Then the Tooth Fairy will put a five-dollar bill under Junior’s pillow AND swing by YOUR room to leave a few bucks for the knee you replaced.”)
My wife (with a mixture of optimism and realism) recently informed me that I need to ease up on the helicopter parenting. She and I have had our shot at instilling our values in Gideon, passing along some practical skills and sharing lessons from the school of hard knocks.
For instance, I have done my part in combating raging hormones by letting him know that fatherhood is not for the faint of heart. For that matter, it’s not a picnic for people with a deviated septum, spastic colon, plantar fasciitis or the heartbreak of psoriasis, either. But the cardiac patients get all the glory! What’s up with that?
Where was I? Now it’s time to cross our fingers and let Gideon stand on his own two feet.
Speaking of standing on his own two feet (and not being able to sit down), that reminds me of another transitional period. Years ago, Gideon had committed some punishable offense and I confronted him in his bedroom. I had long wanted to move beyond my (infrequent) application of corporal punishment — and suddenly inspiration hit me.
As did the palm of my hand. I began whacking my own buttocks and coaching Gideon to shout, “Ouch! Ouch!” at the top of his lungs.
Within a matter of seconds, my wife came barreling into the room, demanding to know, “What are you doing to that child????”
It was a priceless bonding moment and a transition into a more enlightened method of communicating disapproval. And two of us thought it was hilarious.
Unfortunately, I was not able to stand on my own two feet for several nights. If I did, my head would bump the ceiling of the dog house. Ahhh… good times.
I’ll take things one day at a time as Gideon’s future unfolds. When he was eight years old, he promised me that someday he would bring his children and grandchildren to visit me and give me a big bear hug.
No rush, but I look forward to bouncing them on my knee — unless a rookie Tooth Fairy messes things up.
“No, not THIS knee! The one under my pillow! Ooo…I hope your supervisor still believes in corporal punishment!”
Copyright 2025 Danny Tyree, distributed by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.
