I was staring at the screen that Saturday morning, fingers hovering over the keys, when he came to me.
This is what I do. I am a writer. But it could have been you, slithering beneath a tractor in the machine shed if you are a farmer, or scratching your head as you watch the calculator spit out figures that just won't jibe, as the owner of a small business might.
"Dad," my son said as he began his lament, "it seems like you're always working. I wish we could have more time together."
I frowned, because no father likes to be reminded of his shortcomings. I'm a good father! Of course I am! I rolled my chair back from my desk and opened my arms. He stepped into my arms, and I hugged him.
I gently explained to him the sort of things you might explain. I was on a deadline, someone I did not know in New York was waiting for a manuscript.
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We spin like dogs chasing their tails sometimes. The work we do to provide our children with insulation from a cold world pulls us away from them. We want the best for them. We love them that much, so we are willing to make sacrifices for them.
By 11:30 a.m. I was finished. Not bad by my standards. He was sprawled out on his back, munching on something purple, watching cartoons, when I walked upstairs.
"Son," I said, lowering myself to the couch, "I've been thinking ..." His eyes grew wide in horror. It's always dangerous when Dad starts thinking.
"You know, I would like to spend more time with you," I continued. "I really would. But it seems like you're always busy watching cartoons. How about if we shut those cartoons off right now, and you can help me grill burgers for lunch?"
A sly smile crept over his face. He is only six, but he understands irony. He stammers and stutters, then finally grins in surrender, and I make the burgers alone. It is just as well. His cooking acumen does not range much beyond S'mores.
I measure myself against my father. I suppose every father does. In one summer, my son and I easily surpass the lifetime total of times my father and I went fishing together. My son loves to fish, or rather, he loves to throw rocks into the water and splash around while I try to catch deaf, fearless or stupid fish.
It is good that we seek to do things better than our fathers. Therein lies the key to a better world.
Will I do enough? No. It is not possible. Will I do better than my father and his father before him? I think so. And if I have done my job, my son will do better by his son.
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Fathers are allowed to express a tenderness in today's society that was just not done in the stolid, stoic families that whelped out my father and yours. It is not that they did not love us as much as we love our children. It is that they did not know how to show it. In our world, tenderness does not diminish masculinity nor should it.
As I measure myself against the father I lost 10 years ago almost to the day, a wound that has only now begun to heal, I mourn the loss of his friendship. We were just becoming friends, equals, when I lost him. Our friendship would have grown deep.
So in my son, I have a friend. I am still the glowering, barking drill sergeant as my father was, but I have tried to balance that. I do not pretend infallibility. When I have been too harsh, when I have been wrong, I pull my son to my arms and confess. And, glory be, sometimes when he is wrong, he does the same.
On Father's Day, I pretend to be oblivious as my wife and the kids buzz over the gifts and cards they have assembled to honor me. I grin big grins and deliver big hugs, but this year, I think I will not just sit back like a king to enjoy my day. I think we will have some family time. That will be the best celebration of Father's Day. I shall do what a father should do. I'll see you at the park. Last one out turns off the cartoons.
Bender, a weekly newspaper publisher and writer from Ashley, N.D., is the author of three books. He is a native of Frederick, S.D. E-mail redhead@drtel.net
