A Father missed

I wade a lot in the ocean that is reading and play with the pebbles on its shores . Sometimes, I find gems. Carried in the torrent that is today’s life, not everybody has the time to play with pebbles.  I share those gems with you, here, to save you the time of searching in the pebbles. These gems have many colors. These colors are sometimes of tears, sometimes awe, sometimes science, sometimes medicine, sometimes love, sometimes introspection, sometimes smiles, sometimes anything.

Here is such a gem, shared with you-delve into its depth of feeling.

What is a Father? Anyway?

By Erma Bombeck

A funny thing happened on the way to divorce. You know, the father who didn’t get custody and who wasn’t around too much anyway and what’s to miss?

The kids missed him. For what?

He didn’t breathe with his wife when the child was born. He was out in the lobby having a cigarette with a guy who sold real estate!

He never knew where the nappies were and when he burped the baby it felt like he had a brick in his hand. When the kids sat on the kerb and waited for him to come home from work, all he did was run his hand through their hair and say, “ How’ s it going, kid?” That was it

Whenever a child cried, you know what he did? He yelled to the mother, “Something’s wrong. He wants you.” He never realized the child wanted him.

Sometimes, he looked like he wanted to kiss the children, especially when they were hurt or at bedtime, but he hung back. Very often you felt he didn’t think he was important – just someone to wait until he got home so he could give the kids a firing.

As a mother, I wonder what is that magical elusive quality that children see in their fathers.

Is it the strength of the hands they trust never to drop them when they are thrown into the air?

I am safe with Dad

Is it the calm he brings to a volcanic confrontation when he asks the children what they think before he makes a judgment?

Maybe they seed the fear that is deep inside that never surfaces or the tear that is there but never shed, or perhaps the love that is rarely accompanied by words.

I honestly don’t understand it.

As mothers we are taught that love and respect have to be earned. I know what fathers don’t do, but what is it they do to earn that respect and love?

Without ironing a shirt, baking a birthday cake or reading a story, they occupy a place at the summit of a child’s existence

Is it possible that children sense a unique human being who was there at the beginning and will remain until the end and will not be a mother – but will fulfill that rare role that is father?

I don’t understand it.

But the kids do.


Falls on June 21 of very year.

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