I’m a good Dad.

My kids have, in years past, strenuously disagreed but I’m pretty sure that by now they’ve come around to my way of thinking.

There are not too many things that I’m all that good at but being a Dad is one.

I can prove it too, because right now, as I write, I am doing something that I swore I never would.

I’m wearing Crocs.

That’s right, Crocs. The peculiar shoes made from recycled Styrofoam fast food containers and available in every color in the solar system. The shoes that make any wearer’s feet look like duck webs, that might be worn in Boulder, Colorado or San Francisco but should never see the light of day in rural Georgia.

Real men don’t wear Crocs.

Unless they were a Father’s Day gift from one of his brood.

At least my new footwear is dark blue and not hot pink. Or fuchsia. Chartreuse?

This week we endured, I mean we celebrated another Father’s Day. I was in the middle of a road trip and was not able to attend church services on the special day but I wasn’t too sorry to miss. I‘ve always maintained that Father’s Day worship services, when compared to the Festival of Adoration that is Mother’s Day, is usually a time when the preachers take the opportunity to spiritually whup the dads like redheaded stepchildren.

But I did get to spend much of the day with my middle baby and my granddaughter, the Princess of the Plains, so I was a happy Daddy, and Granddaddy. My other two called the old man with their best wishes. I wanted them with me but, because my kids reside in three different time zones, it’s a tall order to get them all together.

I took some time to reflect on what it means and what a blessing it is to be a father. It’s been a decade full of the designated mid June Sundays since Daddy crossed the river but I like to think I learned to fill some important roles from him about the most worthy job a man can have.

Like being a protector.

When my oldest daughter was around eight years old she disappeared in a crowded mall while we were shopping. I didn’t panic outwardly but inside I was experiencing a parents worst nightmare. I formulated a quick plan, began the search and started retracing our steps. Finally, after nearly half and hour, I spotted her way down the mall. To this day I remember the relief I felt. She was tall and skinny and as she ran toward me all I could see were knees and teeth and all I heard was her wailing.

I’d found her. I hugged her for an hour and I didn‘t let her out of my sight again until she went to college. Well, nearly.

Encourager.

My younger daughter was determined to take gymnastic classes when she was barely 9 years old. To say that she had no talent for tumbling would be the kindest way to state the facts. Newborn giraffes are not as ungainly. But I convinced her that she was improving every week (it would have been difficult for her to get worse) and that she was the most determined kid in the class, which was very true.

Fortunately, she grew up to be quite graceful.

Ignorer.

My son found an old hunk of rusty iron when we were camping in the Rockies one year. He was 7 and was certain that the metal was treasure. He wanted to keep it so I told him if he could get it into the bed of my truck we‘d take it home. It was quite heavy so I doubted he could do it, but he did. The only problem was, he put a thousand dollar, deep gash in the paint of my shiny new tailgate. What could I say? We’d made a deal. So I ignored the damage.

Real men, real Daddies, will do all sorts of things they might not be totally prepared for, like eating pickle and peanut butter sandwiches that were lovingly prepared or learning to braid pony tails just they way the little ladies like them.

We also do things that life did totally prepare us for, like teaching them the “pull my finger” trick, to burp the alphabet, maybe to give a wet willie.

Real Dads, at least this one, will even wear dorky looking Crocs. And, truthfully, after I swallowed my pride and put them on, they turned out to be the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever worn.

I guess this Dad can still learn a thing or two.

Like real Dads do.

Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He lives in Shell Bluff. Email Don at Livelycolo@aol.com.