The first time I met my husband, he told me he hated cats.
That's a shame, I said. I had two that weren't going anywhere.
Later on, as our relationship grew and I realized he was actually quite fond of cats, he told me he wasn't planning on having any more children. He already had two sons.
That's a shame, I said. I wanted to have at least one child and maybe more.
Twenty years later, John and I have three daughters and three cats.
I remember the ultrasound when we learned that our first child was going to be a girl, and the look on John's face.
"What am I going to do with a girl?" John asked, truly perplexed at the notion of a female child.
"The same thing as a boy. But there will probably be Barbies," I told him.
It didn't take John long to figure it out. OK, so maybe he didn't change a lot of diapers. But he was willing arms to hold and rock the babies when they wanted to be held. And sometimes that's what matters most.
Over the years, we've grown into our distinct roles. John is about fun and adventure. Of course - he's the skydiver. He gave the piggyback and kayak rides. He's the one who sneaks them off for ice cream and takes them on the rollercoasters. He's the one who has promised to take them skydiving on their 18th birthdays.
I am impossibly tethered to the ground. I make dinner and sign report cards and holler about picking up dirty socks in the family room. I will be there waiting on the ground when they skydive, ready to dial 9-1-1.
It's works, mostly. I gave up believing long ago that any family is truly functional. I try not to compare us to other families, but I do. We all do. And of course that's dangerous. You don't really know what goes on behind closed doors, my mother used to say. Still, it bolsters me to think we're not messing up as badly as other people are - I suppose it's the same logic that makes me feel better about my mediocre house-cleaning skills after watching an episode of "Hoarders."
John says that I'm too optimistic, but yes, I think we're doing just fine as parents. Or at least a solid OK job.
Still, sometimes we let our doubts get the best of us and think about how we could have, should have done things differently, done things better. Then I tell John to remember that we always did our best at any given moment in time, and above all else, we always loved our kids with all our hearts.
I tell him that's enough, and I think about my own father. When I was in high school, my relationship with my father was troubled, to say the least. Somehow, over the years, it got better and I came to realize just how much my old man had done for me. And how he actually understood me better than anyone else, even my own mother.
But even through our ups and downs, I never doubted for a minute how much my father loved me. I'm just grateful I had a chance to tell him how much he meant to me.
This will be John's first Father's Day without his dad. I know it will be hard for him. My dad's been gone six years and it's still hard. But we're the lucky ones, I tell John. We're lucky we had our fathers, and had them for as long as we did.
Someday, your kids will feel the same way about you, I tell John.
He doesn't believe me - I'm just a mom, after all. What do I know about being a dad?
Just one thing: Above all else, he's a father who loves his kids with all his heart. And in the end, that's what matters most.
- Mary Jane Grenzow is editor of the Monroe Times.
She can be reached at
editor@themonroetimes.com.
Her column appears on Saturdays.
That's a shame, I said. I had two that weren't going anywhere.
Later on, as our relationship grew and I realized he was actually quite fond of cats, he told me he wasn't planning on having any more children. He already had two sons.
That's a shame, I said. I wanted to have at least one child and maybe more.
Twenty years later, John and I have three daughters and three cats.
I remember the ultrasound when we learned that our first child was going to be a girl, and the look on John's face.
"What am I going to do with a girl?" John asked, truly perplexed at the notion of a female child.
"The same thing as a boy. But there will probably be Barbies," I told him.
It didn't take John long to figure it out. OK, so maybe he didn't change a lot of diapers. But he was willing arms to hold and rock the babies when they wanted to be held. And sometimes that's what matters most.
Over the years, we've grown into our distinct roles. John is about fun and adventure. Of course - he's the skydiver. He gave the piggyback and kayak rides. He's the one who sneaks them off for ice cream and takes them on the rollercoasters. He's the one who has promised to take them skydiving on their 18th birthdays.
I am impossibly tethered to the ground. I make dinner and sign report cards and holler about picking up dirty socks in the family room. I will be there waiting on the ground when they skydive, ready to dial 9-1-1.
It's works, mostly. I gave up believing long ago that any family is truly functional. I try not to compare us to other families, but I do. We all do. And of course that's dangerous. You don't really know what goes on behind closed doors, my mother used to say. Still, it bolsters me to think we're not messing up as badly as other people are - I suppose it's the same logic that makes me feel better about my mediocre house-cleaning skills after watching an episode of "Hoarders."
John says that I'm too optimistic, but yes, I think we're doing just fine as parents. Or at least a solid OK job.
Still, sometimes we let our doubts get the best of us and think about how we could have, should have done things differently, done things better. Then I tell John to remember that we always did our best at any given moment in time, and above all else, we always loved our kids with all our hearts.
I tell him that's enough, and I think about my own father. When I was in high school, my relationship with my father was troubled, to say the least. Somehow, over the years, it got better and I came to realize just how much my old man had done for me. And how he actually understood me better than anyone else, even my own mother.
But even through our ups and downs, I never doubted for a minute how much my father loved me. I'm just grateful I had a chance to tell him how much he meant to me.
This will be John's first Father's Day without his dad. I know it will be hard for him. My dad's been gone six years and it's still hard. But we're the lucky ones, I tell John. We're lucky we had our fathers, and had them for as long as we did.
Someday, your kids will feel the same way about you, I tell John.
He doesn't believe me - I'm just a mom, after all. What do I know about being a dad?
Just one thing: Above all else, he's a father who loves his kids with all his heart. And in the end, that's what matters most.
- Mary Jane Grenzow is editor of the Monroe Times.
She can be reached at
editor@themonroetimes.com.
Her column appears on Saturdays.
