If I were a better daughter, I’d put a card in the mail. I thought about it, and thought about what I’d say. I’m always careful to get the blank write-your-own-note kind, or the kind that wishes well without undue emotion. It would be laughable to send something that said “World’s Greatest Dad.”
Usually I do send something. I write a brief note comprised of small talk, and enclose a picture of his grandson, in the off chance that he might think, “Oh lookie here. What a fine lad. Now isn’t that nice ” As if that would ever happen. Ever.
Sometimes I call. It’s not usually unpleasant, but there’s not much warmth or genuine interest, on his part. Or mine, if I’m to be completely honest.
“You will RESPECT me! Because I’m your father!” I can still hear those words, thundered at me, so many years ago. And my impassioned reply, “Respect is EARNED! It. Doesn’t. Happen. Automatically.” (I quite possibly may have shrieked that retort.)
Teenagers. The things they say.
I recently learned that he doesn’t trust me. It came as quite a surprise. He thinks that I am in “cahoots with my mother”. I’m not sure what designs she has, but apparently, I share them.
I do love him. Because he’s my dad. I admire him, even, for many things. Intellectual accomplishments and pursuits. Sense of style. Culinary finesse. I just wish that he knew how to be impartial in loving his children. I wish that he had been kind. To all of us. Not just the fair-headed ones.
They don’t quite understand. (The fair-headed ones.) They resent(ed) him too, for showing favoritism. Even as small children they could recognize the blatancy. They hated the unfairness and despised the doting. Even so, they didn’t (and don’t) really know what it’s like to be one of the others. One of the unfavored ones. Like me. Like my departed brother. Like most of my brothers.
Some might say that I was a favored one. Mom’s favorite one. I admit that there was a time when I tried, valiantly, to befriend her. I gave it my best effort. In my idealistic and impassioned youth, aforementioned, I arrived at the thought that it was important for parents to know their kids, and finding it an impossibility with my dad, I tried with my mom. I don’t think anybody else tried, and if, for that, I’m considered a favorite… …Then perhaps I am. Or was. I don’t think so, though. She was heroic in her efforts to run damage control over my dad’s blatant favoritism. She tried so hard to make things as fair as she could, as fair as she knew how. I admire her for that, and for other things as well. Creative accomplishments and pursuits. Ability to make ends meet that couldn’t possibly meet. Somehow she managed.
We had a falling out of sorts. I was still a teenager, but I was in college, and had decided I was an adult, and was therefore ready. For. Sex. That was the end of our closeness, our hours and hours of talks. There’s more to that chapter, but this isn’t the time. I’ve been thinking much lately of starting an entry that I will call “Chapters of my life”. Maybe later, or possibly sooner, I’ll garner the courage to open that book. It’s all so narcissistic, isn’t it
I write this only for myself. To get it out. It’s my own form of therapy. I don’t want to offend my siblings, my parents, my family. Any of them. I love them. Desperately. All of them. I mean no disrespect to anyone. I seek no consolation. Nor sympathy. I want simply to voice these thoughts, so that I can eventually find my way out of the mire of emotions and neuroses and issues and memories and ideas and thoughts and attitudes that make me me. And hopefully, one day, I will wake up and find the new and improved me, a loving, thoughtful, wise, centered, compassionate, together, and mentally sound mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend.
I am trying.
