When I got back from my three-months-long vacation with my parents, right before Father's Day, my thoughts were none too charitable toward either of them. Thirty-three uninterrupted days with my parents, the last ten days of which were spent in the car on a road trip. Thus, for my card to my father (which is all he got from me seeing as I don't have a job and am trying to start up a company), I borrowed sentiments from someecards.com. Something to the effect of "Sorry I can only afford the same Father's Day gift I got you when I was seven, but I'd be honored to buy you a celebratory meal with the credit card you pay for."
On previous Father's Days I've been sentimental, and this has been brushed off. None of our immediate family is too comfortable with emotional expression. So I didn't feel too bad about my lighthearted card. But this past Sunday I learned that a couple of guys I went to school with, brothers, had lost their dad in an accident during a trip to celebrate one of the brothers getting into med school. This is the fifth dead father of school friends--that I know of! And I don't think we're at the age that our fathers should be dying. They're not even retired yet!
Ever since this terrible news, I've been inundated with a feeling of gratefulness. I'm so grateful my dad is alive. But even more than that, I'm grateful that he's such a good dad.
When I was little, it was taken for granted that all dad's were tall, good at sports, and smart. I even thought that my dad might be a little worse than other dads because he had a terrible temper. The number of times I can remember that temper being untempered, though, is less than mine ten fingers. In fact, whenever me and my two brothers really pissed him off by being too annoying or wrestling too much in the car, he would give us the option: "Do you want me to pull over now and spank you on the side of the road, or wait till we get home?" We of course always opted for when we got home because a) he wouldn't be pissed anymore, so the spanking wouldn't be as hard, b) who wants to be beaten on the side of the road--embarrassing, and c) most of the time he would forget!
Although, the older I get, the less I think the forgetting theory is likely. He probably just didn't want to beat us once we were behaving for once. Who wants to listen to wailing children? And boy, did I holler whenever I was in trouble. All he had to do was look at my crosswise and I'd begin welling up, sobs backing up at the bottom of my throat. One false move by him and they'd be released. More of a punishment on him and anyone in my vicinity than on me, really.
The older I get, the more women I know who had poor relationships with the fathers. My dad was great in many ways; some I have, I'm sure, unfortunately forgotten. The things that stand out clearest to me now are those things that are so dramatically different from what other women have experienced with their fathers.
One of my friends had a father who assigned all women to one of four categories: beautiful, pretty, cute, ugly. He would tell my friend, his daughter, she wasn't beautiful or pretty, but she was cute. It made sense that she would have a dysfunctional relationship with her body image.
My father always complimented me and my mother, and it never made me feel that beauty was something to be sought after nor was it a competition I was in. By no means am I the most beautiful or the most attractive woman. My dad's compliments didn't make me vain or preoccupied with my image. Every woman has her own innate beauty, and I am confident in mine because of my father's attention. And he still compliments me. I painted my fingernails and toenails hot pink on Sunday. At lunch when we held hands for prayer, he said, "Oh! That's a pretty color. What's it called?" And I replied around a mouthful of food, "Pwinksh." (The sh sound is the sound of me sucking spit back into my pretty mouth. I'm sure he's as proud of me and I am of him.) Not only did he notice a change in my appearance, but he complimented the change and asked for information about it. Which I didn't know because I really can't be bothered with details. But it made my day.
Another friend of mine has a father that "tells her like it is," often remarking, "Stop being such a bitch." And she says she likes, even needs, that sort of straightforward talk in her life. My father, I'm sure, has had to have had the passing impression that I'm acting like a b****. And that's probably a kind thought. My teenage years were not pretty, ya'll. But he has never, ever, ever called me that. Nor would he! You do not call the people you love degrading names. Instead, he instructs me (most patiently considering my headstrong behavior) how to be a lady and a godly woman. I am almost never grateful for this instruction, but when compared to the alternative, I think I'll change my tune. And because of his respectful way of talking to me and my mother, I've never sought a verbally abusive boyfriend or had those acidic thoughts about myself. I might be awful or mean, but I never view myself in subhuman terms.
Play time. I rarely hear my friends talk about playing with their fathers. My dad played with us. We would wrestle. We would swim. He would make up stories about Walter and Penelope (although that was more of a way to get us to go to sleep instead of staying up till all hours chasing each other with squeals of addled excitement). He coached us in sports (though those good memories are mixed with uh...other memories, pretty evenly). And I have a couple of very fond warm rain memories.
Oklahoma gets warm rain. Sometimes the sun is even out when it rains. Warm rain requires the temperature to be 75F or warmer, and the rain is about air temperature. The benefit of warm rain is that it is excellent singing in the rain weather. But that's not what we did with our dad. One morning, when we were all still very small, he piled us into one of my brothers' wagon and pulled us all around the neighborhood in our pajamas. It was a very small parade, but the memory of getting pulled around in the rain by our zany father remains one of my fondest.
The other warm rain memory began too early on a Saturday. There were thunderstorms, and Father pulled us out of bed before we ready, before we'd even had breakfast, and instructed us to put on grubby clothes. We were going to dig trenches. This, dear readers, probably doesn't sound like much fun to you. Nor to us! Oh the bellyaching that met my father's ears as he tried to roust us from our warm roosts. Once outside, the digging began. But we had to use our hands. And there wasn't any apparent system to Father's trench scheme. The need for the trenches was also beyond our ken. The backyard wasn't flooded, had never flooded, so why did it need trenches? I don't know who threw the first mud ball. I have my suspicions that he stood a head taller than the rest of us and had a better arm.
After a couple hours, we resembled the Swamp Monster more than children. Mom made us bathe outside with the water hose--which was quite a bit colder than the rain--before coming inside. This, of course, led to a water fight, with our father having control of the only weapon the majority of the time. After seeing what little progress we made, she demanded we disrobe outside and provided us with towels to hide under as we ran, giggling, to our rooms to properly bathe and put on normal clothes.
I love the memories I have of my dad, and I appreciate the way he parented me then and now. Sometimes I'm misunderstood, but I'm always loved. Sometimes I'm hurt, but he always asks forgiveness. Sometimes I'm angry, but he's always willing to explain. No one is perfect. But my dad is the perfect father for me.
Share some of your childhood memories below or discuss how you feel about your dad.
*P.S. Next month I will post some fictional writing I've been working on. Be sure to come back and let me know your thoughts!
On previous Father's Days I've been sentimental, and this has been brushed off. None of our immediate family is too comfortable with emotional expression. So I didn't feel too bad about my lighthearted card. But this past Sunday I learned that a couple of guys I went to school with, brothers, had lost their dad in an accident during a trip to celebrate one of the brothers getting into med school. This is the fifth dead father of school friends--that I know of! And I don't think we're at the age that our fathers should be dying. They're not even retired yet!
Ever since this terrible news, I've been inundated with a feeling of gratefulness. I'm so grateful my dad is alive. But even more than that, I'm grateful that he's such a good dad.
When I was little, it was taken for granted that all dad's were tall, good at sports, and smart. I even thought that my dad might be a little worse than other dads because he had a terrible temper. The number of times I can remember that temper being untempered, though, is less than mine ten fingers. In fact, whenever me and my two brothers really pissed him off by being too annoying or wrestling too much in the car, he would give us the option: "Do you want me to pull over now and spank you on the side of the road, or wait till we get home?" We of course always opted for when we got home because a) he wouldn't be pissed anymore, so the spanking wouldn't be as hard, b) who wants to be beaten on the side of the road--embarrassing, and c) most of the time he would forget!
Although, the older I get, the less I think the forgetting theory is likely. He probably just didn't want to beat us once we were behaving for once. Who wants to listen to wailing children? And boy, did I holler whenever I was in trouble. All he had to do was look at my crosswise and I'd begin welling up, sobs backing up at the bottom of my throat. One false move by him and they'd be released. More of a punishment on him and anyone in my vicinity than on me, really.
The older I get, the more women I know who had poor relationships with the fathers. My dad was great in many ways; some I have, I'm sure, unfortunately forgotten. The things that stand out clearest to me now are those things that are so dramatically different from what other women have experienced with their fathers.
One of my friends had a father who assigned all women to one of four categories: beautiful, pretty, cute, ugly. He would tell my friend, his daughter, she wasn't beautiful or pretty, but she was cute. It made sense that she would have a dysfunctional relationship with her body image.
My father always complimented me and my mother, and it never made me feel that beauty was something to be sought after nor was it a competition I was in. By no means am I the most beautiful or the most attractive woman. My dad's compliments didn't make me vain or preoccupied with my image. Every woman has her own innate beauty, and I am confident in mine because of my father's attention. And he still compliments me. I painted my fingernails and toenails hot pink on Sunday. At lunch when we held hands for prayer, he said, "Oh! That's a pretty color. What's it called?" And I replied around a mouthful of food, "Pwinksh." (The sh sound is the sound of me sucking spit back into my pretty mouth. I'm sure he's as proud of me and I am of him.) Not only did he notice a change in my appearance, but he complimented the change and asked for information about it. Which I didn't know because I really can't be bothered with details. But it made my day.
Another friend of mine has a father that "tells her like it is," often remarking, "Stop being such a bitch." And she says she likes, even needs, that sort of straightforward talk in her life. My father, I'm sure, has had to have had the passing impression that I'm acting like a b****. And that's probably a kind thought. My teenage years were not pretty, ya'll. But he has never, ever, ever called me that. Nor would he! You do not call the people you love degrading names. Instead, he instructs me (most patiently considering my headstrong behavior) how to be a lady and a godly woman. I am almost never grateful for this instruction, but when compared to the alternative, I think I'll change my tune. And because of his respectful way of talking to me and my mother, I've never sought a verbally abusive boyfriend or had those acidic thoughts about myself. I might be awful or mean, but I never view myself in subhuman terms.
Play time. I rarely hear my friends talk about playing with their fathers. My dad played with us. We would wrestle. We would swim. He would make up stories about Walter and Penelope (although that was more of a way to get us to go to sleep instead of staying up till all hours chasing each other with squeals of addled excitement). He coached us in sports (though those good memories are mixed with uh...other memories, pretty evenly). And I have a couple of very fond warm rain memories.
Oklahoma gets warm rain. Sometimes the sun is even out when it rains. Warm rain requires the temperature to be 75F or warmer, and the rain is about air temperature. The benefit of warm rain is that it is excellent singing in the rain weather. But that's not what we did with our dad. One morning, when we were all still very small, he piled us into one of my brothers' wagon and pulled us all around the neighborhood in our pajamas. It was a very small parade, but the memory of getting pulled around in the rain by our zany father remains one of my fondest.
The other warm rain memory began too early on a Saturday. There were thunderstorms, and Father pulled us out of bed before we ready, before we'd even had breakfast, and instructed us to put on grubby clothes. We were going to dig trenches. This, dear readers, probably doesn't sound like much fun to you. Nor to us! Oh the bellyaching that met my father's ears as he tried to roust us from our warm roosts. Once outside, the digging began. But we had to use our hands. And there wasn't any apparent system to Father's trench scheme. The need for the trenches was also beyond our ken. The backyard wasn't flooded, had never flooded, so why did it need trenches? I don't know who threw the first mud ball. I have my suspicions that he stood a head taller than the rest of us and had a better arm.
After a couple hours, we resembled the Swamp Monster more than children. Mom made us bathe outside with the water hose--which was quite a bit colder than the rain--before coming inside. This, of course, led to a water fight, with our father having control of the only weapon the majority of the time. After seeing what little progress we made, she demanded we disrobe outside and provided us with towels to hide under as we ran, giggling, to our rooms to properly bathe and put on normal clothes.
I love the memories I have of my dad, and I appreciate the way he parented me then and now. Sometimes I'm misunderstood, but I'm always loved. Sometimes I'm hurt, but he always asks forgiveness. Sometimes I'm angry, but he's always willing to explain. No one is perfect. But my dad is the perfect father for me.
Share some of your childhood memories below or discuss how you feel about your dad.
*P.S. Next month I will post some fictional writing I've been working on. Be sure to come back and let me know your thoughts!
