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Commentary
I won't let grief rob me of my favorite holiday
On my first Father’s Day as a new dad, my wife, Gail, bought me a sunshade for the beach and we took little Ruby to see the ocean for the first time. She was 2 and a half months old. The shade protected her little face from the sun. She wasn’t a huge fan of the beach that first visit; I imagine the sand felt strange and alien to her little hands and feet. But she and her brother Hart, born three years later, would come to love the ocean. The four of us would huddle beneath that shade, eat sandwiches from the nearby Italian deli, and then venture out from the shade to build sandcastles and swim in the glorious Pacific Ocean. Once when they were still young and just learning to swim, a dangerous rogue wave suddenly swept in and I scooped them both up in my arms and hauled them out of the rushing waters just in time. My wedding band fell off in the tumult and was lost to the ocean, but I got the kids back to the safety of the protective sunshade.
It’s hard for me to write the word “protective.” I have a complicated relationship to that word now, because I failed to protect Ruby and Hart from being killed. And isn’t that my main job, as their dad? In 2019, our car was struck by a drunk driver going 90 miles an hour and Ruby and Hart, aged 17 and 14, didn’t survive. There are billboards in Los Angeles that say, “If you love your children, keep them buckled in the backseat.” I am certain this is statistically true, but the fact is, if your car is T-boned at 90 miles an hour, seatbelts and sitting in the back seat can’t help you.
As parents, we are constantly worrying about safety. We carefully apply sunscreen at the beach, we hold hands crossing the street, we make our kids wear helmets and we buckle them into the backseat. But one of the hardest lessons life has to offer is the simple truth that we are not in control and that there is no such thing as true safety.
Being Ruby and Hart’s father was and is central to my identity. Sure, I’m a husband, brother, son, teacher, filmmaker and theater artist, too, but all those identities pale in comparison to my role as Dad. From the moment my kids were born, I was all-in. Gail and I split the parenting evenly, but because I was a mostly stay-at-home dad, I scheduled most of the playdates and doctor and dentist visits. I did most of the school pick-ups and drop-offs. And I loved all of it. I loved being Ruby and Hart’s dad because they were the coolest, most interesting kids on the planet.
I always used to solemnly tell Ruby and Hart that Father’s Day was the holiest day of the year. And they played along. “Sure, Dad!” they said, gently humoring me. I got breakfast in bed – waffles, fresh-squeezed orange juice, scrambled eggs — and we did whatever I wanted to do for the day, which usually meant a family trip to the beach.
For Father’s Day 2019, the two of them got me a sky blue baseball cap with the words “La Napoule Swim Club” embroidered on it, along with an image of swim goggles. It was an inside joke. A few months earlier I had told them the story of when I was 12 and went to the Château de la Napoule (pronounced la – na – pool) to visit my dad, who had an academic residency there. It’s a spectacular French medieval castle near Cannes, but little 12-year-old Colin was bitterly disappointed because he had expected it to be home to an amazing pool. After all, it’s right there in the name! When I found out La Napoule was pool-less, I was crushed.
Ruby and Hart got such a kick out of this story of their dad as a young, disappointed boy, that they got Gail to help them design four matching hats, so we could all be members of the non-existent club. What a sweet, beautiful, funny gift! An elaborate in-joke for the four of us. But Ruby and Hart never got to give me my hat, because they were killed four days before the holiday. And instead, I buried them on Father’s Day.
So now how do I get through this holiday? My first impulse is to avoid it altogether. Erase the day off the calendar. After all, it’s just an invitation to feel pain, aching and bitterness, right? It’s hard not to feel resentment toward all the happy families who are still intact. Social media is especially painful. All those beautiful posts from my proud dad friends. All those photos of their smiling children, getting older every year and getting the chance to live their best lives. All of Ruby and Hart’s friends posing with their dads. They are so sweet — and so very hard for me to look at. It might be best to pretend the holiday doesn’t exist — to crawl into a hole and numb the day away however I can.
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But, no, I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to let grief rob me of my favorite holiday, the holiest day of the year. I want to be able to sit in those joyful, playful memories and celebrate my kids. And I still want to be in the lives of my friends who are dads and to celebrate their kids. I don’t want to wall myself off from life, because those walls don’t actually protect me from the pain anyway. Pain gets through every time. Pain finds the cracks, or makes new cracks, or just goes right over the puny walls I try to build. So I might as well lean into it.
On Father’s Day, I’ll spend some time on social media. I’ll heart a few of those photos, at a price. I’ll spend some time thinking about Ruby and Hart, of course. I’ll miss those Father’s Day waffles that were always a little underdone (because Hart was too eager to deliver them), and the eggs that were always a little overcooked (because that’s how Ruby liked them). And I’ll miss my kids and ache for them.
It's not masochism. I’m not trying to be some kind of grief hero. I just want to be real and present in this moment. And look, I’m not going wallow in the pain. I’m not going to spend hours on social media — a little goes a long way. I’m going to do my best to be kind to myself, even as I try to open up my heart to all the feelings that will hit me because that’s just the best I can do.
Ruby and Hart, I love you. Thank you for all the special days we had. I’m wearing my Father’s Day hat as I type this. La Napoule Swim Club forever.
