Me and Dad
You could say I always had suspicions. The fact that they get along so well in and of itself was a tipoff, but true confirmation came the first time I saw my husband clean the house. He was a man on a mission, determined to clean it like it had never been cleaned before . . . and convinced that it hadn’t been.
I found myself watching the whole scenario with my mother’s bemused expression and thought, “Oh . . . my . . . GOD. I’ve married my father.”
Although I’m doing better with it as time goes on, I admit I saw many of the stages of grief when the similarities started becoming noticeable. There was denial (“No. I’m imagining it. He does not turn the TV up after I go to bed”), anger (“Okay, stop it! I mean it! Stop rearranging my counters!”), all the way to acceptance (“All right, honey. We can leave for the show two hours early.”)
Don’t get me wrong; I love my dad. I adore him. I just didn’t plan on living with him for the rest of my adult life, you know what I’m saying?
And of course there are differences. For example, my dad doesn’t own 600 ties. My husband, on the other hand, has never said, “Home again, home again, jiggedy jig.” My dad considers cutting the grass a chore as opposed to a life calling. And my husband will never possess the tone of voice that can make my hair stand on end simply by saying “MaryMargaret.”
But the similarities are undeniable. It only makes sense, really; if I love my father, then wouldn’t it follow that I would love a man who reminds me of my father? Of course it would. It’s completely normal. I’m not kidding. Look it up. Hey, I did.
Besides, it’s not like they look like each other or anything. That would just be . . . creepy. No, it’s much more subtle than that. For instance, they both believe that there really is no such thing as a cold or a headache, but if they do happen to get one, the only true cure is a three-day shutdown of the entire free world.
Neither of them cares for the water, yet both married women who, if you look closely, have gills. And they both adhere to the philosophy that when you can’t win an argument with your wife, simply end it with, “Whatever you say, honey.” And they both believe there is no shame in being a man and not being able to fix a car.
They believe there is no need to panic during an emergency, although there is often a need to take a few minutes to discuss the stupidity of it. And they believe there is an art to the barbecue – a certain sauce, a certain seasoning, a certain finesse of the tongs . . . not everyone can do it, you know.
But best of all, they share many of the same values. Both agree that intolerance will not be, well, tolerated. And that given the opportunity, people may let you down time and time again, but it’s best to keep giving them the opportunity anyway, because that means there’s hope. And that the people you love matter most, no matter what.
Yep, this whole thing used to bother me. But then I thought, well, if my dad wasn’t the way he was, then he wouldn’t have raised me the way he did, and I wouldn’t be the person I am, which means I probably wouldn’t have met my husband, so of course we wouldn’t have gotten married and had kids, who may or may not turn out to have many of the characteristics of both of them.
And since I’m sure my therapist will someday be able to convince me that this all well and good, my kids and I would like to wish them both a Happy Father’s Day. After all, they do have something else very special in common.
Us.