Fifth Commandment

Way back when the school I teach at was a year-round affair, I remember the discrepancy between Mother's Day and Father's Day. We were encouraged to have the kids make poems and cards for mom. Some of the more adventurous teachers made lovely bouquets of paper flowers or other nice craft projects to mark the dia de los Madres. A lot of construction paper and glue was used to create those tributes.
But when it came to Father's Day, there was a quiet agreement to keep that on the low-down. We were reminded that many of our kids weren't in touch with their fathers, and it might stir up confusion and hard feelings. It made sense, I suppose, so we didn't get out our markers and fold a piece of clean white paper (hamburger style, not hot dog).
When my school went to a traditional nine month calendar, that concern was neatly removed. Even when we started a little late, we were always out by the third Sunday of June, and the emphasis was more on report cards than Father's Day cards, but it always felt just a little hypocritical to me. My son, with plenty of help and support from his mother, has always happily given me more than my share of attention on "my day." I don't have enough pencils to fill the pencil holders that he has made for me over the years. I still treasure the T-shirt he painted for me in pre-school, and the big red felt "S" he decorated with glitter glue still hangs proudly on my closet door.
Everyone has a father, but circumstances don't always allow us to maintain that connection. I am tremendously happy that I got to share those thirty-odd summer Sundays with my dad. I wish I had a few more, but I know that I had a better deal than a lot of kids. I gave my dad his own flurry of pencil holders and desk organizers. I drew plenty of cartoons featuring my dad's bald head on cards that he never seemed to throw away. Just like I'm sure that the checklist my son made for me this year ("play Guitar Hero", "go to Scandia") will find its way into my scrapbook.