On Becoming My Father

It's funny how I never learned to appreciate my father until he was long gone and I, in a strange and unlooked-for way, had sort of become him. In other words, it turns out that the life that he had chosen and the sacrifices he made, meant little to me until I found myself in the same boat. It was too late to express it by then of course. But ain't that just the way it goes.

Geez, here I go becoming maudlin, brooding about my dad who has been dead these past 11 years. Next, I'll get started on my dear departed mother and there will not be a dry eye in the house. It must have something to do with being an orphan, but that's no excuse for digressing. It's material for another essay, perhaps, but this is certainly the kind of thing that will keep me from getting published in the pages of The New Yorker. Besides, Angela's Ashes has already been published.

The point is, of course, that it is simply impossible to understand the nature of your parents until you have walked in their shoes… until you have paced the midnight floor with the baby who has an earache… wiped the tears (and the blood) from the face of that frightened three-year-old who has once again fallen off, tumbled over or slid into one of the infinite instances of hard and unyielding earth forms (like concrete sidewalks). And it's not just the accidents and illnesses, either. They turn out to be the easier things to deal with.

How do you deal with the look on your five-year-old's face as you drive away and leave him behind on that first day of school? How do you explain that, despite that accusing look, it is not really a betrayal… especially because you know damn well that it is, and for the first time in your life you find that you can relate to Judas? When he comes home from his third day at school and you know that something is wrong, but for the first time in his young life, he can't or won't talk about it, and it makes you feel kind of helpless. Reaching back into your own store of disembodied and fog-enshrouded childhood memories, you can almost but not quite retrieve that elusive file that relates exactly to your own child's present trauma. You are left with the vague sensation of deja-vu and snippets of elusive memories that include everything from falling off a bicycle to the first encounter with the local bully, whom you have now confused with the Stephen King character of Flagg from The Stand.

One memory snapshot is suddenly clear and you remember the face of your own father, albeit a much younger version than you are used to. And you are suddenly aware of that look that has since become your own… that perplexed and anxious knitted brow, the half-solemn, half-quizzical look that registers the deepest concern combined with profound helplessness. In that moment of confusion and informed despair, of hopelessly inadequate hopefulness, you realize something. And even though your first impulse is loud and abject denial… and even though this same realization will raise its ugly head on many similar occasions in the future, you will continue to pretend that the resemblance is just not possible. Eventually of course, you will give in--or give up denying, whatever the case may be--and quietly acquiesce. It might be just a passing glance from a mirror as you race out the door to meet the morning rush hour. Or it might be the innocent reflection from your seven-year-old's eyes, triggering your own memories from when you were seven and your father supplied the exact same answer to the question of why does love hurt. It might even come to you unexpected and unbidden, as you drift off to sleep after a long, hard day. In whatever form it takes and regardless of its inspiration, for better or worse, when you make that universal commitment to your children to be there for them, to be their father… you will realize that you have suddenly become your own father.

Don't worry about it. You will also come to realize that it's not so bad after all. Life goes on and life is good, even though you are no longer 20 anymore. In fact, you might even be surprised to find that Life doesn't even begin before 40. Imagine that! Besides, moving on, growing up, maturing and even becoming your father is inevitable. So, get used to it. Think about the alternatives. Would you really trade it, and for what?