A father is a thing that is forced to endure childbirth, without an anesthetic.
A father is a thing that growls when it feels good—and laughs when it’s scared half to death.
A father never feels entirely worthy of the worship in his child’s eyes. He’s never quite the hero his daughter thinks, never quite the man his son believes him to be, and this worries him sometimes. So he works too hard to try and smooth the rough places in the road for those of his own who will follow him.
Fathers grow old faster than other people. They have to stand at the train station and wave goodbye to the uniform that climbs aboard. And while mothers can cry where it shows, fathers stand there and beam on the outside—while they’re dying on the inside. Fathers have very stout hearts, so they have to be broken sometimes or no one would know what’s inside of them.
Fathers are what give daughters away to other men who aren’t nearly good enough so they can have grandchildren who are smarter than anybody else’s.
They hurry away from the breakfast table, off to the arena, which is sometimes called an office, a workshop or a farm. There, with calloused, practiced hands they tackle the dragon with three heads: Weariness, Work, and Monotony. And they never quite win the fight, but they never give up.
Knights in shining armor—fathers in shiny work clothes—there’s little difference, as they march away to work each work day.
Have a Happy Father’s Day!