Dear Daddy

Two nights ago I woke up with a migraine.  When that happens, which is frequently, I have to be careful to move as little as possible, so I nudged Sweet Hubby out of his sound sleep and asked him to get me one of my pills.  Which he did, immediately and unbegrudgingly.  I am so grateful to be married to the nicest, most good natured man I have ever known (even though he can be a grump from time to time).

My daddy was a good man, honest and  hard working.  But he was not a nice man.  He could be friendly.  He could be funny.  He could be wise.  But he was not basically a nice man, not the way I think of that description.  I don’t know how Mom could have stayed married to him.  She was the nicest, kindest, most caring person it is possible to imagine.  Dad was very lucky that he met her, and very, very lucky that she said yes.  She was one of the few women who could have made a happy life with him.

And I believe she was happy.  It was her basic nature.  Dad was her Sweet Hubby, and she loved him, even though she must have recognized his flaws, even though he couldn’t give her the warmth and affection she deserved.  Dad never talked about feelings, his own or anyone else’s, but, to his credit, he was very good at appreciation.  He knew he had a good thing in Mom, and from time to time he would find a way to express that.

My relationship with Dad was complex.  I was afraid of him, curious about him, resentful toward him, longing to find ways to connect with him.  I knew he loved me and my siblings, and he gave us everything we needed to thrive – except warmth and affection and ease.  Naturally I am much more like him than like our cheerful, squishy, unabashedly affectionate Mom.  Sometimes when Sweet Hubby and I are arguing and I’m being especially bristly, I will catch myself and say “Sorry, honey, you married my dad’s daughter.”  I hate it when I am hard on SH, withdrawn, passive aggressive, just plain mean.  When I see that in myself, and feel my own loathing for the way I’m acting, I imagine that perhaps Dad could also see how he was behaving, how it scared and alienated his children, and hated it in himself.

It should be noted, of course, that my siblings had their own experience of our parents, which were some ways is different from mine.

Mostly, I wish I could have known Dad better.  His sister, our aunt, was terribly dysfunctional, completely self-absorbed, stubbornly un-self-aware.  Her children weren’t speaking to her by the time she died.  Perhaps Dad was a miracle of survival in whatever atmosphere contributed to Auntie’s stunted growth.  I wish he could have articulated his inner thoughts, his demons, his struggles, his sadness.  I wish I could have been closer to him.  I tried, and for all I know, he did, too.  I’m sure he did his best.