I went out last night to Smokey Bones, where I usually go when I go out. I’m acquainted with some of the other regulars, including a gentleman named Howard. He’s older than me, old enough to be my dad. I kind of look to him as such. He knows my story, knows about my mom. He asked if my dad would be ok for fathers day. I said of course. I just assume he’ll be fine.
Fathers day has never been a big deal for as long as I can remember. My dad just kind of existed as a paternal figure. He wasn’t a “dad” in the way many describe. He doesn’t care about cards or holidays, so, especially as an adult, I’ve let it slip by the wayside and he doesn’t seem to care. I remember fathers day with unopened cards and little appreciation for the “happy fathers day!” exclamations, so I’m over it.
Being a single mother, I’ve always kind of felt this day was a little bit for me, too. Raising a child on your own is really like splitting yourself into both parents at once. At least it feels that way. Especially with a boy you’ve got to be ready for the rough and tumble side that a dad would usually take on. I’ve never gotten a fathers day card, or any recognition for it. I just quietly think about. Maybe I’m just a holiday hog. Who knows?
What I do know is that last night I had several beers. Enough to the point that Zach came to pick me up. He’d been out with friends. One of them drug the others to a hookah bar, and Zach was none too thrilled. I’m proud that he wasn’t (I sure as hell wasn’t thrilled either) into the place. He was my biggest supporter when I quit smoking, so I don’t imagine him lighting up any time soon. So Zach came to pick me up. At that point I was talking to a random guy and Zach was very vehement that we leave when I finished my beer. He’s very protective of me. He takes care of me in ways he shouldn’t have to. I should be giving him the fathers day card this year. He’ll be a great one some day.