‘Local dad’ marks his 5 years as stepfather early

If I’m doing the math right, in August I will celebrate my fifth year of participation in the holy and honorable estate of matrimony. Which means I will have been a stepfather for the same amount of time by operation of law and through no particular worthiness.

So today is my fourth Father’s Day to the limited extent the holiday even applies to me at all.

After all, one could make the argument, as I think I have, that being a stepfather to adult children is to have an exceedingly tenuous relationship with the actual concept of fatherhood. Like I wrote three years ago, I’m just the Local Dad. The real party in interest is up in Michigan.

Things were pretty grim not long after the Local Dad graced these pages. We were in lockdown together due to the pandemic. The vaccine had not made it into the pipeline yet. So I was banned from most outside human contact by both the Deacon (my wife) and the armada of personal physicians I have on permanent retainer.

Nobody will look back on those days with particular fondness. The Deacon was forced to teach occupational therapy stuff virtually, and if memory serves her homeless ministry was put on hold. Joe had to leave school where there were parties featuring girls and beer to attend Hendrix College via Zoom in the Fortress of Solitude upstairs. Sarah went from picnics on the banks of the Red Sea to hanging around the seriously unfabulous likes of me and subsisting on takeout here in the People’s Republic of Hillcrest.

As for me, I pretty much stayed out of the way. After all, they all had stuff to do. I really didn’t. Not that I didn’t have my discrete uses as the Local Dad. A chunk of my money helped buy this house back when hearts were light and gay. Who knew at the time it would provide a shelter against the biggest public health crisis since the Spanish Flu. On a more utilitarian level, I paid for the internet and cable. And I dutifully kept the house stocked with adult beverages. They also serve those who only stand and buy stuff.

And as if being stuck thusly in close quarters with the likes of me was not sufficiently dreadful, it was during this time that my brother Bob had quadruple bypass surgery. Another brother, Dave, died a week after Bob’s surgery. Heart attack in his sleep.

I tried to be a tough guy. To be a rock around the only kids that I will ever have, step or otherwise (I will have more to say on this subject shortly). They didn’t need this. They were under enough stress as it was. Although no one has offered a critique of my performance in those days I’m sure I was an absolute failure at trauma-induced stoicism. But everyone forced to live with me at this time could not have been kinder and we all saw sides of each other we had never seen before. That is not altogether a bad thing. It is certainly a thing nobody this manufactured family unit will ever forget.

Which brings me, regrettably, to Marjorie Taylor Greene and her recent odious opinion that a stepmother who had appeared before her committee was “not a mother.” I took the logical implication of this idiocy to be that the woman in question was likewise not qualified to be a parent. Yeah, I’m putting words in MTG’s mouth. But better me than her.

Since there is no Parent’s Day on the calendar yet, let’s stick with the Father’s Day theme. If you get your Significant Other’s kid out of jail, you’re a Dad. If you fix a bike, you’re a Dad. If you refrain from slapping a mouthy kid’s teeth down his or her throat, you’re a Dad. If you go to their ballgames, recitals, and graduation ceremonies, you’re a Dad. If you are sitting in front of the window that you know a kid is going to utilize to sneak back in the house, you’re a Dad. A very clever Dad. If they know they can call/text you anytime, you’re a Dad.

I could go on recounting these mighty acts mostly related to me by other guys, but you should be getting the point. If you’re basically available and you give a damn, you’re a Dad. Don’t let anybody tell you anything different. Don’t take relationship advice from MTG.

Sarah and Joe have gone forth into the world to do the great things their actual parents wired them up to do. I’m just as proud of the two of them as I would be of my own, even though I am just the guy their mom inexplicably married who keeps a jar of his late brother’s moonshine in the liquor cabinet.

I don’t give a damn about MTG’s opinion as to my bona fides. Sarah and Joe will always know where to find me. After all, I have my discrete uses.

I’m always available. But I stay out of the way. I’m the Local Dad.