I once bought my kids a set of batteries for Christmas with a note on it saying, toys not included.
~Bernard Manning
The countdown is on. Soon, garages across the continent will be hosting frustrated dads who are trying to assemble every manner of contraption the toy company geniuses can conceive.
Christmas Eve is unique in its power to create an experience shared by so many dads at the same time. Since the dawn of time, dads have been waiting for the kids to fall asleep so they can open boxes, spread out parts, and read vague directions in dim light.
Screws are turned. Fingers are pinched. Pieces are lost. Beer and blood are spilled. This is how it goes every year in countless man caves from coast to coast.
Christmas morning will come and the kids will be excited. Dads will be appreciated by moms. The swearing and smiling and sweating and searching for that single, yet vital, little nut that rolled away someplace will all be worth it come Christmas morning.
I remember my own initiation into the club several years ago. It involved a complicated battery-powered tractor and a tricycle. I spent several hours on raw knees constructing those treasures, which now lie broken and rusty from being abused and left outside in the rain.
I had help that first night from the other members of the club, the heroes who came before me: my dad and grandpa and uncles. The men I loved and admired most helped me. They operated those screwdrivers alongside me and they got out the “magnet on a stick” to retrieve the lost screw from under the workbench.
I finally understood things about my own dad I had never known before. I am glad I understand now. My life would be less without appreciating his sacrifice and efforts to bring a smile to my face on Christmas morning.
So, this Christmas Eve I will renew my membership in the club. I will follow the directions step by onerous step. I will peel off layers as I heat up and I will stretch my sore back. I will say, “No, thanks” when my wife asks if I need any help. She will close the door and walk away relieved, as the ream of paper from the instructions and the too-many-to-count pieces sprawled across the concrete floor can be overwhelming.
I won’t mind. This will be my time to be a good dad. I will be at my absolute best in those pre-dawn hours when the final bolt is tightened and the last decal goes on.
In the morning, I will sit red-eyed and oily, smelling like antifreeze and lawn fertilizer. I will have a cup of coffee in my hand and a grin on my face. When my seven-year-old daughter asks why I have Band-Aids on three fingers, I will say a beautiful little lie to her pretty little face. And when she follows up with, “Does it hurt?” I will reply, “Not much, sweetheart, not much.” And this won’t be a lie. I’ll be too happy to hurt.
~Dave Markwell
