PART ONE 

 I don’t think my husband will ever write about what it means for him to become a father.  I tend to hog the spotlight when it comes to our conception story since the physical stuff happened over here.  But he was there.   And I know he longed and wished and hoped.  But it was his job to stay strong for me when I felt weak.  It was his duty to say “It’s fine if we never have kids.  I still love you.  I will never leave you.” when I told him to find someone who could give him the family of his dreams.  He never wavered.  Not even for a minute.

I don’t know what he did when I wasn’t around.  Perhaps he closed his eyes and saw himself standing with a little boy or girl, picking out punk rock records from his extensive collection, telling his miniature never to get a tattoo while showing off his own.  Maybe his heart broke a thousand times over when he thought that wouldn’t happen.  But he held me when I broke down over other people’s good news.  And he never let me go.  Not once.

My pregnancy was difficult.  He made me BLT’s and brought me frozen White Castle Cheeseburgers.  He did without a wife for those 5 months.  I don’t know how he soldiered on, having nothing to look forward to after a hard day’s work but a  horribly fat, morose woman who hadn’t left the house in weeks.  But he did.

My husband is an incredible father.  I can say, without fear of contradiction, that he is a better father than any I have seen among family or friends.  He was told by another friend who has small children, while her own husband was sitting right there, that he was the best father she knew.  Her husband was hurt, but it is just a fact.  It would be like saying he is a male.  It just IS.  When people assume I have the same struggles as any other working mother, I don’t correct them, but I should.  But the truth is, I don’t have those same struggles.  I can go to meetings and networking events and work at the office on the weekends without even the slightest bit of guilt (although, maybe I should try to have more work-life balance).

Drue and the boys pick out punk rock albums from his collection. They listen to them while running around on the back deck.  Someday soon he will warn them about tattoos.  Happy Father’s Day, sweet man.  It was worth the struggle, wasn’t it?

PART TWO

It is hard to write about my own father because he is a contradiction.  An ambiguity.  He was the master of the household, but not really.  He was horribly strict, but not really.  He was absent, but not really.

I imagine my father as a young boy in Kandahar running on rooftops and throwing stones at stray dogs, refusing to get up to go to morning prayer with his father, and tipping over the horse cart because he didn’t know how to drive it.  I see him sitting on the veranda with a book, dreaming of another world.  What else is there?  And how can I get there?

My father knew, from the time he was a small boy, that he wanted to be a doctor.  In Afghanistan, university is free, but the government picks what you’ll do.  My father took the test to go to medical school, but his grades came out that he’d be better suited as a teacher.  My pop is a stubborn man, and instead of settling, he did his year in the army and took the test again.  This time it came out right and he went to medical school.  He completed his study, traveled through Europe and India, and then came back to find a girl to settle down with.

I have written of how my father came to American and left his new bride in Kandahar.  When we all came to the U.S., my parents tell the story of why it is I call my father “uncle”.  I was almost two when I met my father for the first time. When he approached, my mother said “there is your baba” and I said “no, that’s not my baba, my baba is here (pointing to a picture of my father) that is my kaka (uncle)”  They say that early bonding is important.  My dad and I probably had a rough go of it, each jealous of and covetous of my mother’s attention.  He left Afghanistan a newlywed, but still free of the chains of fatherhood.  He didn’t have time to get to know the woman he’d married, to establish a life and a routine before this little runt entered the picture. 

My father provided well for us, but let us know that he worked for it.  “If I can do this, a simple man from the streets of Kandahar.  If I can become a surgeon in this America, why can you not become something too?  If I had the opportunities you had, I would be something even better, even greater.  A politician, or a philosopher.”

I giggle even writing that, because really, what’s better than being a surgeon?  But in his mind, politicians had the power to change the world, and philosophers had the power to shape our thoughts.  It is no small coincidence that I graduated from undergrad with a degree in philosophy.  It is no small coincidence that I went to law school. 

If I tell you life with my father was easy, well, I think most of the people who know us will know that’s a lie.  When I say that life with my father was an adventure, that would be true.  When I say that life with my father was worthwhile, that would be most accurate.  Pop taught us that easy is not the flavor of choice in the Seddiq household.  Easy was for lazy people. And Seddiq’s were not lazy.  My father instilled in us the Seddiq code of ethics – fight for what you believe in, fight for your honor and your family name.  Be proud of who you are, never waver, never falter.

Dad sent me an email a few weeks ago.  I have been toying with the idea of moving back to New York because it really is quite hard to start a practice in a new place during a great recession.  My father has given me much guidance in my life and my greatest fear is disappointing him.  It turns out, my insecurity was causing him great distress. He wrote:

Dear Zary Jan Salam.

Firstof all excuse my spelling and sentences .

Kiss the kids for me.

We(pushtoon or Afghans) have not been trained how to express our love to our children.We do it not through our intellect but through our intution.

Our love for you Adam and children is beyond limit.I know,that I am not the perfect father I know my weaknesses and shortcoming. Of course I was protective based on my culture,religion,prejudices and social habits.I have tried not to interfere into your personal liberties-what to do what not to do.

Here is the source of the stimulus of my e-mail.

Rohma gave me a disturbing news that Zary wants to move to NY.  I was confused and really unhappy.Here is for the first time my expression of disagreement and telling you not to. 

Whenever I do something, I think, WWKS (what would Kaka say).  Here I was, violating a great rule of our upbringing, taking the easy way out.  And here was my fear come to light, his disappointment.  Suffice it to say the S-K household won’t be leaving anytime soon.

Father, Kaka, stay safe.  You have taught your children well.  Be easy in knowing that we cherish the name you gave us, the sense of history, values and love.  Happy Father’s Day.