Sometimes Fathers Lie

Sayler's warm, sweaty hand was draped over my neck.

 

We lie, uncomfortably, our foreheads connected, the way athletes show camaraderie during prayer before a big game...

 

I was attempting to ease her back into sleep.

 

I was immobilized, worried if I moved prematurely I would stir the little girl who was caught somewhere between slumber and full-out Energizer Bunny mode.

 

(Because there's nothing in-between for toddlers).

 

I had only my thoughts to keep me company,

 

and my thoughts drifted to one of the numerous nicknames, "C-Note", I have acquired in these last few adult years.

 

And thinking about a "C-Note" made me think of a gift I gave to my father.

 

 

I was just a young girl- no older than 8 or 9- when I had won enough tickets from games played at Bullwinkle's to acquire a prize behind the brightly-lit display.

 

There were so many wonderful things...

 

Items likely made in cheap plastics from China and tin that would corrode under the duress of a droplet of water...

 

but I thought they were valuable.

 

And I wanted something for my father, the man who loved to play music and instruments.

 

I used all of my tickets on one item: a harmonica.

 

I was thrilled to give it to the One that I had called "Daddy".

 

As I handed him the hard-won gift, his joy and gratitude were evident: the immediacy of his response, the brightness of his face, the way he carefully turned in his hands and slowly surveyed the invaluable instrument, and proceeded to carefully put it to mouth before belting out a blues-inspired note...

 

And though he had several harmonicas, he made a point to say "I needed one of these, it's the only one I don't have... it's a C-Note..." and he pointed out the small script from the battered and small box that harmonica had been housed in.

 

In small letters in read: "C-Note".

 

My thrill matched his.

 

I had given him something he needed among all of the perfectly wonderful instruments he already owned.  In that moment, I was sure I had given him one of his favorite gifts ever.

 

And maybe I had.

 

But as I lie under the ceiling fan that cast a slow hum over my face I abruptly realized that I was naive as a young girl.

 

It took me 25+ years, the night before Father's Day, to accept that my dad hadn't been completely honest with me.

 

Sometimes Fathers Lie.

 

It isn't to say he didn't love the gift. It isn't to say it wasn't one of a kind or, in its own symbolic way, exactly what he needed.

 

But his enthusiasm might have been over-embellished, a little over-exaggerated and his careful, slow survey of the instrument might have added a dramatic flair to the moment. The way his eyes closed while his hands moved over the harmonica as he blew, sliding left and right, akin to James Cotton or Billy Boy Arnold...

 

It was all done for me, wasn't it?

 

It was. 

 

And the result was effective enough to last 25+ years, though now I am slowly digesting his dishonesty.

 

Sometimes Fathers Lie.

 

And his deliberate deceptiveness could not have been sweeter, kinder, or more Academy-Award winning than anything I had ever witnessed before or since.

 

So to those Fathers who lie to their children for all the right reasons, with all the dramatic flair and time spent carefully surveying trinkets in their hands and honoring the art of deceptiveness with all the best intentions:

 

Happy Father's Day-

 

From Daughters and Sons Everywhere.