I spent the entire day at my stepbrother's new house with his wife, her mother, my mom, my Stepfather and of course, Little Peep.
Could he be any cuter? No. He could not.
This was actually when he was brand new, but still, I mean, Hello! Look at him. I fed him and rocked him and nibbled his toes.
His mommy is Cuban, and she and his Abuela mostly converse in Spanish. Faye tries to speak to him in her native tongue, but keeps defaulting to English. Hopefully Little Peep will be bilingual, but I don't envy her the challenge.
I guess this is a day I should talk about my dad, but what do I say, really? I didn't even talk to him. He wasn't around, so I had to leave a message. He was probably at the airport, putzing around his hanger.
Every childhood Saturday I'd go out there with him and we'd eat breakfast and read comics. I'd order a shortstack of pancakes and listen to my dad and his airport buddies talk about planes and women. Mostly planes, but I caught the little jokes every now and then.
On Sundays when I'd put on yellow summer dresses and go to church and learn how to sign "Jesus Loves Me," he'd be at his church, worshiping at the aviation alter.
And I was jealous of him. Jealous that he got to do what he wanted with his time. But now, now I wonder what he did out there. Did he miss his family? Does he regret those days of solitude? Does he wish he was there with the other daddies, waiting outside my Sunday School classroom, ready to hear me tell him about the shepherds and the lowing cattle and show him my paper plate Q-tip lamb?
I don't know. But today, as I sat around the picnic table eating potato salad, laughing with my mother and the man she loves, I have to think about my dad. Putzing around his plane. Getting to do what he wants, when he wants.
On Father's Day, he was alone. I spent it with a man who didn't even meet me till I was practically a grown-up, but who loves my mother. A man who never raised me, but who puts his arm around the woman who did.
I'm sad for my dad. I'm sad for ME. Because he's so far away. And what happens when I have muffins. Will I be in Ohio, celebrating holidays without him? Will my babies know their Grammy's husband better than their Grandfather? I don't know.
But I miss him. I miss him so much it makes my throat tight.
And I'm so scared. So scared I'll marry a man just like him. And we'll have twenty good years and then he just won't feel like being married anymore.
He'll want to putz around his own hanger, or garage or workshop or whatever. He'll want his freedom back and then what's left of me?
I've had the man I love more than anything in the galaxy move out of my home. I can't have that happen again.
And there's not even anyway I can make this sound the way I want to. It just is.
The notify wants its own Little Peep.