The Fathers of My Life

My mother divorced my father, Bill, when she was pregnant with me and I met him for the first time when I was seventeen years old. He died when I was twenty-four years old. My grandfather, Ivan, was the love of my life, a sweet and loving father figure to me. For as long as he stuck around.

My mother had moved back into her parents home when I was only a few months old and my grandparents doted on me. When my mother would put me into my crib at night, I would cry and my grandfather would come to my rescue, cradling me in his arms. I slept between him and my grandmother most nights. I have many memories of his nurturing ways--feeding me tomato soup and crackers; sitting on the cement steps of the doctor's office, holding me while waiting for my grandmother to emerge; holding me on his lap while we watched television together.

My grandfather died when I was only two years old and that day is indelibly etched into my mind. We were watching wrestling together which was against the rules as the doctor had told him that the excitement was bad for his heart. He did it anyway of course and I was his accomplice. I remember when the heart attack came. He picked me up from his lap and set me on the floor. Then he grabbed his heart and dropped to his knees, vomiting. I ran and got the mob and returned to clean up the mess he had made before my mom or grandmother saw it. But they heard his ruckus and came and found him and then all chaos broke loose. My mother was making calls on the phone, frantic. Her and gramma were crying and very upset. Finally the doctor arrived with his black bag and after checking out the situation, he covered my grandfather's body and face with a blanket. Then the neighbor came and there was lots of commotion. That night we sat on the back steps, looking up into the dark, star filled, sky. I knew my best friend, my loving grandfather, had died. I thought many wise and ancient thoughts that night, sitting on those steps, feeling the grief of others.

The next father who came into my life was my step-father, Wayne. My mother met and married him when I was six years old. I remember the first time we met. He chased me around my grandmother's big front yard as all the adults stood by, watching us, and laughing. Everything thought it was a funny game. It wasn't a game and it wasn't funny. I was running for my life. I was petrified of that man catching me. In the four years my mother was married to him, he never loved me. I never loved him either. He did hurt me a lot to make up for the lack of love though.

Then came the fathers of my six children. There are three of them, Rick, David, and Robert. My eldest and youngest children have different fathers than the four in the middle. I'm not called to write much about any of these men today, other than to offer them an honorary mention and to note that I have many stories and the resulting mixed emotions surrounding their fathering roles in mine and my children's lives.

Who I do want to honor in a very big way this Father's Day is Jerry, an incredible husband and partner in life and love, and an awesome father too. Jerry and I were older and wise enough to know better than to have babies together but when we married and blended our families we had nine children between the two of us. At one point we had six teenagers, although only three of them lived with us all at the same time. Three teenagers plus two pre-teens added to the mix. Parenting nine children, five of them living with us mostly full time was a lot to ask of a newly established relationship.

We found a house with a pool and converted both the family room and part of the garage into bedrooms. Jerry took on the role of the family chef and it's only recently that he's learned to pare down the volume of his cooking, so conditioned to meeting the needs of a hungry mob.

All I can say is that Jerry was, and is a trooper. He was in for the long haul from the get go and he let his faithfulness to our cause be known. He loved me, and by association, loved my kids. It wasn't always easy, believe me.

At this point in our lives all but one of the kids have moved out and are making lives (and babies) of their own. The youngest is maturing and making his own life too of course but is still settled in with us at home base. Our grand kids (all fourteen of them) love and adore their Papa Jerry. He's goofy and silly and loves to get right down on the floor and play with them. Mostly he loves making loud music with them, each one banging away on their own instrument.

So today I acknowledge this sweet man, my husband and best friend, a loving father and grandfather. Thank you Jerry for being you, for coming into my life as a knight in shining armor and for sticking around through the thick and thin, the fun and the not so fun times. Thanks for making a life with me and our kids. I love and adore you.

And oh, remember when we first met and you said to me "I'm so glad I found you" and I responded with a playful but glib "I wasn't lost"? I was lost baby. Thanks for finding me. Will you be my daddy?