Father's Day at my house. As a child, a nightmare. Then, fortunately, a dream come true. Now a beautiful reality.

Although he died (wow) almost 50 years ago, I'm still unable to write about--or even discuss--my biological father. My stomach clenches just thinking of him. I truly fear if I ever open the Pandora's Box containing my early childhood, it's possible I'll spontaneously combust.

Happily, my mother remarried a wonderful man I've proudly called my father for 37 years. When I write of 'my parents' or 'my dad,' I am referring to him. Always. He helped us heal. And inspired me to create a family with my husband where life is celebrated, above ground, no angry, abusive, drunken Morlock to threaten innocent, naive little Eloi. Where light and laughter and love abound.

My husband is a stupendous father. Thank the lord. He chooses humor over anger. Fairness above fear. Uses reason, not rage. He and our son are a solid team. They love and respect each other. They talk, exchange ideas and advice, go to movies and ball games, sometimes just hang out.

I marvel every day at our good, decent, happy, high achieving 24-year-old son. I did my part, without question, but his father set the role model meter at Totally Excellent.

One of my favorite aspects of their relationship is the absolute joy it gives them to make each other laugh. It's almost an honor thing, who can get the other to crack up first. With jokes or stories, especially from both of their childhoods.

If you're a parent, you've got a stash of funny kid tales, especially about fathers and sons. That's where I think the focus of Father's Day should be. Thanking, sure, if you can. But doing so through love and laughter while remembering and reliving.

I've been telling these two stories for years. Both Dad and Son laugh every time. I think you will too.

1. Do What I Do, Not What I Say
My husband's a tough guy when it comes to pain. He can have a gash 6 inches long, an inch deep and shrug it off. A broken wrist and refuse anything but Advil. Headaches, backaches, ditto.

But if he stubs his toe, he goes ballistic. Jumps around on one leg holding the wounded foot and howling. When our son was little he didn't understand the pain, just found Dad's antics vastly amusing. He'd let loose those little kid belly laughs that are pure music to the heart.

One day when Son was about two years old, he stubbed his own toe. Usually a stoic like his dad--both have high pain tolerance--this time his face scrunched up with agony. I could see a tsunami of tears about to break loose.

Trying to distract him and maybe even make him laugh, I said, "You're okay, buddy. Just do what Dad does when he stubs his toe."

The storm clouds cleared instantly and our little munchkin started hopping around the room on one tiny foot, emulating Dad, yelling at the top of his lungs, "OW OW OW, I STUBBED MY FUCKING TOE!"

My husband and I agreed that was probably a good time to start cleaning up our language, en famile.

2. Be Who You Are, Not Who I Tell You
My husband was and is a hands-on father. Involved. Loving and supportive. Caring more about the kid's learning and safety and success and happiness than gratuitous rules. It worked.

Son has always been a good-natured, even-tempered, loving kid with lots of friends, instinctively adept at games and sports, a natural athlete like his father. Throughout his childhood he was, as the saying goes, "all boy."

Also like his father, he's also sweet and kindhearted. Filled with endless curiosity. Many of his friends were and are girls, in childhood especially Rachel. Both only children, they considered each other brother and sister.

One day when Son was 6, he returned from Rachel's house and announced, "Mom, I want a Barbie."

Oookaay.

This was the late 80's. My husband and I are Boomers, dedicated practitioners of Ultimate Feminism. Of finding your bliss, accepting people for who they are and not judging anyone by color, creed or personal choices.

But still. Our son? A Barbie? Whew. Tough call.

This could be a good thing, I told myself and my husband. It could put him even more in touch with his inner nurturer.

My husband's initial reaction was less, shall we say, accepting and more pure 1950's Caveman. "A Barbie?? No fucking way!"

Then his rational, evolved side took over. The one who'd taken ballet in college (required for competitive gymnasts, but also, he'd discovered, a great way to meet girls). The one who loves to cook, prefers the History Channel to ESPN. The one who has many gay friends. Who's comfortable hugging and kissing his son, father-in-law, brothers, friends, and all male relatives.

Still. Knee-jerk Dad was having a hard time putting his money where his mouth was. And it rankled.

I reasoned with him. Boys should play with dolls. It's not about gender, it's about universal curiosity and role playing and not imposing outdated stereotypes and rigid sexist rules from the past.

We discussed, we agonized, we debated. Finally we agreed. I would get Son a Barbie. But I'd find one that showed her empowered, liberated, strong. Baseball Barbie. Hard Hat Barbie. Corporate Barbie. Something like that.

I'm not altogether proud of this, but the next day before heading for Toys R Us, I took one more shot. "Dude, I'll get you Barbie," I said, "but wouldn't you'd rather have Ken?"

"No, Mom," he answered earnestly, trying to make me understand. "I'm Ken!"

There you go. The simple truth we'd overlooked. Adults get so busy interpreting, internalizing and imposing their own issues, we lose sight of the real goal.

Give them guidance, values, appropriate discipline and most of all love. But let each child be himself, or herself. And stay out of their psyches.

There's more. I've since been told Ken is supposedly gay. (Not that there's anything wrong with that). I didn't know it at the time. Obviously, as you'll see, neither did Son.

I proudly brought home Astronaut Barbie, complete with space helmet, laser guns and jet pack. Was Son interested in any of that cool gear? Nope.

He pushed it all aside, stripped Barbie naked, examined her carefully. He got some crayons and drew on nipples and pubic hair. Then he went outside to ride his bike.

Dad's reaction? What else: "That's my boy!"