This Father's Way

It had been nearly a week since I set the barbecue on fire on Father's Day, and now we were walking alongside the River Thames in London, awake for nearly 24 hours since we left home.

And the first thing the kids wanted to see in London? The Shrek Experience.

Don't worry, they did make a list of all the other traditional things folks want to do in London prior to us going. And we did shout in jet-lagged glee when we saw Big Ben across the Thames. 

But about that barbecue fire the week before on Father's Day. Every time I barbecue, I crank up the propane afterwards for a few minutes to burn off the grill and then scrape it. I knew the bottom of the barbecue was due for cleaning, but I thought I could do one more grilling before I did it. As the grill was "burning off," I looked outside the kitchen window and noticed a whole lot of black smoke billowing from the back vents. And flames. Lots and lots of flames. I ran outside, looked at the barbecue, and then called out to my wife Amy. 

"Amy, can you bring me a cup of water?"

She could also see the smoke and flames and told me later she had thought to herself, He wants me to bring him a cup of water for that?

I then realized I had the garden house right there in front of me. I turned off the propane and doused the flames through the vents. I did not open the barbecue lid until the flames were out. Thankfully no one was hurt and nothing was damaged. Our kids asked, "Dad, how did you do that?" 

Quite easily, I thought without answering out loud.

Earlier that same day I was finishing painting Beatrice's new bedroom we're renovating. I had turned the ceiling fan on earlier to help dry the earlier coat of paint, but I didn't turn it off when I got on the ladder to paint the upper wall and -- smack! -- the fan blades whacked the back of my head. Fortunately, there was no major trauma or blood.

And even earlier that same day, again all on Father's Day, we were putting the cover back on our RV, and as I reached down to toss Amy one of the restraining ties, I gouged my hand directly in a sensitive spot that bled and bled. That's something I do all the time, with most of the time not even knowing how or when I made myself bleed on my hands, my arms, and/or my legs. Amy and the girls always say, "Dad, you're bleeding again. How do you do that?"

"It's not about how, girls. It's about when and how bad each time." 

These father fails aren't exactly related to our now family vacation, but in a way, they are. This father's way -- my way, that is. Being a father of two amazing human teens, two daughters, has been an extraordinarily fulfilling journey for the 14 years since our oldest Beatrice was born and the 12 years since our youngest Bryce was born. I'm grateful that they see all my successes as well as my usually self-deprecated day-to-day failures, like setting the barbecue on fire, or gouging my hands or arms unknowingly doing supposedly simple chores. And I'm so grateful that we can take them on jam-packed vacation journeys, even if the first thing they want to see in London is the Shrek Experience. Sigh. 

This father's way makes for a loving end to every day.