So Much To Say

My father is a long time dead.  

He died the day before my birthday nearly 20 years ago.  

It's ok. He was gravely ill, for a long time and it was a torturous existence with no quality of life and it was horrible for everyone to watch and endure.  Things like that leave an indelible mark and you take it with you, everywhere, forever.  While the end was terrible, it was also a relief - and that resulted in guilt, which was also terrible.

Also, it kind of resulted in a lengthy series of really crappy birthdays.  I'm hopeful that I'll break the trend one day, but so far, no dice.

Then you have the anniversaries.  The first year was the worst.  Every first event , holiday, marker, signpost - everyone was like a fresh bludgeoning with a limb from the Harsh Reality Tree.  I don't like that tree.

After that...it did get ... not better, exactly, certainly not nicer or more pleasant, but easier insofar as we'd learned to adapt to life without him and the sting lessened over time.

My father was not what you would call an easygoing man.  He was not easy to get along with.  He was not easy to please. He was not easily placated or accommodated or anything else, but he was my father, and what you realize as you get older is that you only ever get one and even if they didn't do the award-winning job they (probably) tried and (probably) wanted to do, it is likely that they did the best they could. Forgiveness lies at our feet; waiting to be picked up and bestowed upon them when we can, for whatever wrongs were committed.

And there were plenty of those.  But I'm not going to discuss the specifics because those are between him and me, or between him and others, or between him and G-d, and that's where they are going to stay.

I'll  tell you this; I know some people whose fathers are saintly, pillars of the community, about whom nobody can find a bad word to say, but friends, that was not my dad.  My father took great pride in pissing people off, stirring the pot, causing trouble, disagreeing - loudly and in the most unconventional way possible - as often as possible.  I'm not sure where my tendency to avoid confrontation comes from.

But he was funny.  He fought for me to get the best orthopedic doctor in the best hospital in Boston when I came into the world with a pretty raging structural birth defect, and got me mostly put back together the right way.  He put me on to the Three Stooges and Paul Simon.   He let me watch Eddie Murphy movies when I really shouldn't have been allowed to, and let me practice driving far before I was ready (legally, mentally, emotionally) and  went to school and yelled at a teacher who gave me a ration of crap on a regular basis for having the temerity to be alive and not up to snuff in her view.  Regrettably, he took me with him to witness this, which resulted in a totally traumatic experience for me the following day. Hi.

It wasn't all bad.

It's almost easier to remember the bad things though, because I don't miss those.  And when I'm thinking about them, I don't miss him either.

When I think about the good things - when I think about how he did his best and succeeded, when he tried and hit the mark, I do miss him.  And it hurts all over again.

I don't have a dad.
I don't have a grandfather.
My one remaining paternal uncle and Godfather lives far away and has his own kids, and in laws and grandchildren.
My other two unles; one is far flung and not overly interested, and one is closer but still not overly interested.  I mean granted, he has two small granddaughters and I'm fo- um...I'm old enough that I shouldn't be on his mind as someone who needs looking after.

My marriage - kaboom, flames, debris -  I'm glad we can get along for the most part now, and I always make sure to honor the day with the boys for him - we make breakfast or dinner and make sure he has a gift or some little treats.a

And my boyfriend lives 3,270 miles away.  Not that he's a father figure to me or my boys, but he is that piece - that adult male figure we can rely on and lean against, because he is a rock.  A really far away rock.

Father's Day is tomorrow and it's really kicking me in the pants.  Everybody is uploading snaps of their dad or pictures of them with their spouse and their kids, or what-have-you... and I'm over here... hi... I have a rabbit...and the Autistics and I are hanging out eating Cheez-Its (because we're on a Cheez-it kick) trying to get some mulch spread before winter comes around again, and I'm trying to call it a successful day if nobody fights too much and no blood is shed and everybody wears pants.  Yay, parenting.  But I'm not a dad.  I can buy the mulch, point to where the mulch goes, but I can't spread it.  (Physical limitations.)

I can tell them how to use the grill but I can't tell them how to build a fire.
I can't tell them how to bravely kill a bug.
I can't tell them how to change the oil.
I can't tell them how to pee in the damn bowl.
I can't tell them how to be a guy.
I can't even show them how to be a guy.

I can kind of tell them what I know about being a decent person, regardless of gender.
And whatever limited technical stuff I know, I can teach them.
So. Limited.

But I can't stop kicking myself for not surrounding them with better role models, or more role models or role models who have better longevity.  I don't feel up to the task of being both or filling in the gaps their dad leaves, due to his own condition. You want to know about ancient history? He's your man.  Japanese culture?  All day.  Comic books?  Yes.  Carpentry?  Sure.

I just feel like I can never be, or give, enough to those children.
Maybe my dad felt like that too.
Maybe his departure was a relief for him too.

Anyway, this has got a bit rambly.

My point is, it's Father's Day tomorrow and I'd really just rather pretend it weren't, because I don't care if it is the 21st century and if I'm a largely independent, competent woman, sometimes you just miss having a father, or the idea of one.