Over at Post Secret this week's secrets are all about fathers. Lots of sad stuff there, but some funny ones too. I'm stealing this one:
"My dad told me the worst swear word you could possibly say was "Bostonian". It meant "someone who has no private parts." My brother and I used the word until we were teenagers and my father giggled every time we said it, right before he sent us to our rooms."
I had lunch with my father today. I wish he weren't so far removed from me now -- no longer by the hundreds of miles I put between us for so many years -- but by his addled mind. But I am glad the miles are shorter. He was a good dad.
I had breakfast with my son's father. As much as I miss the young 'un on the nights he's with his dad, I am so very, very grateful that he has the kind of father who can't imagine not fully sharing custody and time. I'm grateful to him for bringing the best thing in my life into this world with me, for changing and washing and hanging out to dry all those cloth diapers, for hiking all over creation with our son in a back-pack, for being able to answer all the little guy's questions about how machines work, for laughing at all his silly, boyish, body-function humor, for being the kind of dad who is able to hug and kiss his son and tell him how much he loves him every day. He's a good dad, too.