Lovey Loverpants recently said something that hurt me, although it was not meant to be hurtful. It was actually very perceptive. He said, "I don't think you really like holidays very much." Punch to the gut. First reaction: YOU'RE SO WRONG! I live for holidays. I call off work for holidays (comedy!).
More removed reaction: Why would you say that?
Much much more removed reaction: Maybe you're right.
Having my own family has been as much about fulfilling my own want of connectedness as it has been about fostering that for my husband, for my child. Holidays would come and I would zealously be doing a rain dance around the campfire, chanting and wearing my proverbial feathers and wondering why everyone wasn't following my lead. I was becoming so zealous about HOLIDAY! TRADITION! COME ON JUST LIKE WE DID LAST YEAR ON ARBOR DAY! that I was depressing myself. I was going through the motions, I was filling a jar o' holiday magic that had Swiss cheese holes in it.
So for Father's Day, we kept it low-key. Earlier this week, Loverpants took the day off, we hiked around a cool cemetery with our friends Jane and Martin, and today we just ate some soul food, and Loverpants put together his Dad's day present. And after he was done, he did some push-ups on it, and then Baby Girl demo'd her push-ups, and we all laughed, marking this holiday as one in which we laughed and counted our best blessings, not because we were prompted to do so by Hallmark, or any lame tradition I tried to invent, but because we were together in our tiny living room with shoes and raisins all over the floor. Together, healthy and laughing and so blessed.