I’ve been percolating and processing a little bit over the last couple of weeks.
I didn’t have my kids with me on actual Fathers Day which I am kind of ok about. I’m used to it now I guess. The sum total of contact was a ‘Happy Fathers Day’ text from my son and a ‘Happy Farters Day’ text from my daughter.
I did find it a bit hard seeing the outpouring of happy dads across all social platforms, but I took comfort from the fact that I’d have my kids the following week to make up for it.
On the actual day I popped in to see my 84 yr old dad. Gave him a card which reflects my sense of humour. I even wrote some lovely thoughts inside.
A week later I took my kids over to visit, and I noticed that of all the cards he’d received for Father’s Day, my card was the only one not displayed. He was worried that it might offend my sister. Cool. Boring Simon from here on in I suppose.
A few other things occured at that visit that got me thinking that family really isn’t that important to me.
On Sunday, I lay in bed anticipating a little bit of celebration and attention from my kids. Nope. Maybe my expectations were too high. OOMA made a great effort but it was like pulling teeth to get my kids to do anything.
I’m starting to wonder if I’m actually a good father. Do I do a good job? Do my kids actually care? Or have they been put off me a bit through changes in circumstance (both with me and with their mother). I don’t know.
It’s very disconcerting that they’re getting to the age where they need me in a different way.
I guess I can just steer the course.
Watch this space.