I'm glad the school celebrates dads, I really am. They deserve it! But I also hate these events for a more personal reason. It makes Mark really sad, which in turn, pains me. I hate that he can't take his dad to special events like this, and I hate the obvious reminder that he doesn't have any contact with his biological parents. I spend all my time making sure Mark is happy, secure, and well-loved, but no matter how hard I try, the one thing I can't give him is his dad (or even his bio-mom).
It breaks my heart when Mark is sad and there's nothing I can do to fix it. All I can do is talk him through his sadness and loss. (Like my brother Tim always says--hurts, donut?)
That was the sad news. The happy news is that Mark doesn't have contact with his dad, but he certainly has it with my parents. Who are the kind of grandparents that drive two hours for a donut breakfast just because their grandson asked. And so, while I feel sadness for Mark, I also feel immense love and respect for my parents, and am grateful that my son has them in his life. I can't give him his dad, but I can give him loving, doting grandparents who think he's pretty awesome.
And so off to school we trudged, two grandparents, one mom, a Cub Scout and a giant cello. The line snaked around the cafeteria--there were a lot of people there! Luckily, there were a lot of donuts, too. We watched one little girl eyeing them all, and saw her tiny finger reach out and poke one. I didn't see her mom, but I immediately saw her mom's finger, which smacked the tiny finger away. Then the mom's hand grabbed the donut and offered it to the girl before she could touch any more. (I could almost hear my mom telling Mark, "If you touch it, you take it!")
We secured a seat at the lunch tables, and listened to a couple of middle-school flutists. They were overtaken by a trio of rockers--two electric guitarists, and a drummer--who proceeded to play music written waaaay before their time (even before my time--"Wild Thing," and "Stairway to Heaven"). It was as good as you'd imagine.
Then it was on to Mark's class, where we helped with an art project--painting Native American beads the kids made. Apparently, Mark's Native American lived near the ocean, because he rolled most of his beads into shark's teeth. Which he insisted on painting black. ("I see a shark's tooth, and I want to paint it blaaaack..." Sorry, still got '60s music stuck in my head!)
All the family members--dads, moms, uncles, grandparents, etc.--were encouraged to paint, too, but my parents were content to watch. Or rather, in my Mom's case, content to suggest which colors the painters should use, on which beads. Mark and I had a contest to see who could paint the most beads--I wanted his necklace to be colorful, and he wanted it all black, so we each painted as quickly as possible to outwit the other person. (Grandma's not the only one with control issues!) He won, but only because I had to leave for work. Mark was not sad to see me go.
It started as Dad's Donut Day, but for us, evolved into Grandparent's Donut Day. I watched my parents with Mark, and I have to say--it was even sweeter than the donuts were.
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