Yesterday was Father’s Day, and despite the popular notion that I was hatched, I do actually have a father.
My dad is a rather well kept specimen of slightly more than 8 decades. And while he’s had a rather long list of hobbies, he has showed few other signs of being one of us. He is, to put it bluntly, a norman, an âNT,â he’s neurotypical, a sufferer of Delusions of Normalcy. That’s my dad.
When I was a child growing up in the sixties and seventies, my father was away at work most every day. He even worked every other Saturday. So he wasn’t constantly physically present in my childhood home. But he was there every evening, and he was there every Sunday and the Saturdays in between.
I get my creative and distracted nature from my mother, so I don’t quite feel the same strength of relationship with my father as I did with her, but there was something else, something important.