The Most Important Lesson to Teach a Child

When it comes to immediate family, no one feels good about playing favorites.  Although it’s rarely talked about, every kid has their favorite parent and every parent has their favorite child.  Although my dad’s parenting skills were questionable, he was my favorite.  I remember him as a great father in spite of his faults.

Don’t get me wrong, Dad was an extremely flawed individual.  He was a military lifer who joined the service soon after becoming an official adult.  He served in two major wars, one of which he never mentioned.  As far as the numbers go, he left the US as part of a massive platoon with tens of thousands of other young men.  Fourteen of those men returned.  I understand now why he never spoke of it.  After poring through as much frontline media as I could find, I’ve come to respect Dad much more than ever before.  He was a more complex person than I could have imagined.  These new discoveries stengthen my bond with him after his death.

Dad was a dreadful husband.  He and my mother often fought physically when they lived together.  They were ill-matched as a couple.  My mother is one of those people who must push the boundary by pointing out the embarrassments everyone would rather ignore or cover up and repeatedly rehash the same sensitive topics.  It’s no surprise that, on one of her notorious hot button hunts, she found something dangerously painful in my father and picked at it until it burst open like a rotten fruit in the hot sun.  I’m not saying she deserved it; I’m just saying that it’s not surprising.  When Mom threatened to take us (me and my brother) away, Dad lashed out violently and tried to cut her face off with a pocket knife.  Luckily my brother (then a teenager) was there to intervene.  Supposedly I was away at the babysitter's, but I have no recollection of anything: my mother’s stitches, my father’s arrest, weeks that follwed.  The only one memory I have of their terrible breakup is the day that I came home from school to the foul, overpowering odors of blood and feces.  Mom said that Dad, in a drunken stupor, lost his keys so he broke the window and crawled through because he had to use the bathroom so bad that he couldn’t wait.  It wasn’t a nice lie, but it didn’t leave any room for unanswered questions.  I found out much later in life that Dad’s closest friend had taken his keys away to keep him out of the house and away from Mom.  Indeed, he was an awful husband.

Dad wasn’t an ideal father either.  His alcoholism made him inconsistent in what he taught us and unreliable as a babysitter.  He beat my brother mercilessly before I was born.  There was one warm autumn in particular when my brother wore sweaters to school in the heat of Indian Summer to cover up his bloody welts. 

When I was born, something changed.  My mother and brother still talk quietly about it today, now that my father has been dead for several years, like he might overhear them.  He was a hard and cruel man until I came along, they say.  The fact that I adored my father didn’t earn me any points with them.  After Dad left the family home I was lost. He died a few years later and left me completely alienated.  In my early thirties I finally confronted my mom and brother about it, and they admitted to harboring resentment against me my entire life.  I knew it!  I felt it.  I understand that they weren’t capable of feeling any other way under the circumstances, but remembering my position as the helpless child in that situation still makes my stomach turn.  I lived a life completely devoid of empathy. I learned to hide injuries to avoid being punished for them.  Eventually I just hid everything – good or bad.  I lived a double life: 16 year old honor roll cheerleader and suicidal alcoholic – charming.  I love my family dearly, but I also feel a deep sadness for them.  It’s like being hungry for a long time, when the pangs end and there’s an uncomfortable emptiness growing with every passing minute and draining your energy.  You know you need something to eat, but you're too tired to make an effort.

The great thing that my father did, and that any parent can do for their child, was be human.  He made mistakes.  He admitted to making mistakes.  He apologized (to me anyway).  He explained himself.  He revealed his weaknesses.  He told me the truth and allowed me the time and space to think about it and understand it.  He asked my opinion.  He never refused to answer a question, even if he had to go find the answer because he didn’t know it.  When I disappointed him, he sat me down and explained exactly why he was upset.  He made sure that I understood why the punishment he chose was appropriate.  He even gave me the opportunity to object if there was any misunderstanding.  There was transparency with him.  This is why he was my favorite. 

Dad and I grew apart when I began hiding my feelings and behaving defensively.  The last thing he said to me before he died was that I was becoming just like my mother.  Burn.

Even as I face my own demons as an adult, I remember my dad.  I think of how much struggle he endured and how screwed up he was and how much I loved him and still love him.  I used to compare my exes to him often, trying to make a case for tolerating alcoholism, financial irresponsibility, womanizing.  Now that I’ve been solo for a while I realize that his memory serves me better when I use it to look at myself.  All of the things that combine to make me: my quirks, regrets, loves, fears, strengths, vulnerabitilies, they're all part of the package - my human experience.  The same way I loved him as a flawed human being, I must also love myself.  He's still teaching me stuff...