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Father's Day
Jun. 15th, 2008 02:08 pmHere in the United States, today is Father’s Day. Between Mother’s and Father’s Day, the former is probably more emphasized as important to acknowledge by way of cards and gifts. Perhaps it’s because motherhood is more sentimentalized. In my life at least, it’s always been my father who has been the one unchanging, certain thing—not just in my life, but to everybody who is close to him. I have a good husband, a good mother, good children, and a good family. I have a good, happy life, but it's from my father from whom I learned really how to be happy, how to be a good parent, and how to be a good influence in the lives of others. He's always been an "actions speak louder than words" kind of fellow, and if that's true, his whole life has been a testament to his own innate goodness.
Growing up, I was always closer to my father than my mother. I was his favorite—you know, the child with whom you have that special affinity. Wherever my father was, I wasn’t far behind. I tended to prefer his company over everyone else’s—if he were changing the oil in the car, I’d be there handing him his tools. If he were remodeling the kitchen, I’d patiently chip old tiles off the walls with a hammer and chisel. It was my father with whom I’ve ridden thousands of miles on our bicycles, whether it was the local Strawberry Ride or rising before dawn in Utah on a family vacation, finding ourselves being the only ones on a desert trail, watching the desert sunrise with the only sound being the wind. It’s always been like that.
Maybe I’m his favorite because, by his own admission, I’m the one most like him. Even my brothers admit this.
It’s hard for me to put myself in Malkhos’s position, who has no relationship with either parent. I guess this is because on some level he’s always known that both his parents are incapable of being parents. It must been difficult to be a child to a mother who was too immature to be a parent and a father who never really wanted to be one. However, that’s Malkhos’s story to tell.
One thing I’ve learned from my father is that being a good parent has nothing to do with age. My father became a father at the age of twenty; my mother was seventeen. Even so, from the minute he became one, my father—never once in his life—ever made a decision thereafter in which he didn’t put his family’s interests first. If he had other aspirations, we didn’t know it. If he’d given anything up for us, we weren’t aware of it. If he wanted to do more or see more or experience more, he recognized early that what he wanted didn’t really matter anymore if it meant his children or wife would be adversely affected. It seemed everything he did, he did for us. Nor was it always easy for him—my oldest brother’s birth was traumatic and as such he was born profoundly affected with cerebral palsy—to this day, my brother Mark cannot walk or talk or care for himself at all, and yet steadfastly my parents have cared for him all their lives. One of my earliest memories is of seeing my father, holding my oldest brother (who sometimes had trouble sleeping as a child) on his knee late into the night while my father studied. At the time, my father was working on his Master’s degree (not to pursue his own intellectual interests, mind you; he went so he’d be better able to support his family)—he worked full-time all day, went to school at night, and studied after that. Yet how like him, that he would even take care of Mark well into the night so my mother could rest when he was probably more tired than she. My second brother became an insulin dependent diabetic at the age of five—I distinctly remember, although I was only three, seeing my mother sobbing and weeping because her second child was in a coma, hovering between life and death—and my father was there, trying to comfort her and telling her everything would be all right. I remember being very afraid—I knew enough to know Michael was very sick and not at home; I overheard my father telling my grandmother Michael’s “odds are 50/50” although I had no idea what that meant, but still my father took the time to notice me, sitting on the stairs with tears running down my face, frightened and feeling all alone by all these things I couldn’t understand—illness and possible death; my mother’s hysteria—to pick me up onto his lap, comfort me, and make a little joke to make me smile. He just coped, quietly and patiently. And so very early on, I formed the opinion that nothing could make my father come undone.
He didn't spoil us, either. He had high standards for our behavior but understood when, humanly, we made mistakes. If he had to punish us, he would. He was temperate in his praise, though he gave it when we earned it. He didn't want us to grow up full of false pride or empty vanity; he wanted us to be aware of our own strengths and weaknesses. Again, because of this, I formed the opinion that his way was the right way.
Those early views of him I formed, as well as others, were absolutely correct. I’m not apt to idealize people, to see them as perfect—but if my father has a major character flaw, I still haven’t figured out what it is after almost forty-one years. Even Malkhos can't find one, so it isn't just me.
One of the realities of life is that no one can pick who your parents are—I just happened to get pretty lucky in that department. And even if I am mostly like my father, there’s one thing I know about that—I’ll never be, fully, what he is.
Growing up, I was always closer to my father than my mother. I was his favorite—you know, the child with whom you have that special affinity. Wherever my father was, I wasn’t far behind. I tended to prefer his company over everyone else’s—if he were changing the oil in the car, I’d be there handing him his tools. If he were remodeling the kitchen, I’d patiently chip old tiles off the walls with a hammer and chisel. It was my father with whom I’ve ridden thousands of miles on our bicycles, whether it was the local Strawberry Ride or rising before dawn in Utah on a family vacation, finding ourselves being the only ones on a desert trail, watching the desert sunrise with the only sound being the wind. It’s always been like that.
Maybe I’m his favorite because, by his own admission, I’m the one most like him. Even my brothers admit this.
It’s hard for me to put myself in Malkhos’s position, who has no relationship with either parent. I guess this is because on some level he’s always known that both his parents are incapable of being parents. It must been difficult to be a child to a mother who was too immature to be a parent and a father who never really wanted to be one. However, that’s Malkhos’s story to tell.
One thing I’ve learned from my father is that being a good parent has nothing to do with age. My father became a father at the age of twenty; my mother was seventeen. Even so, from the minute he became one, my father—never once in his life—ever made a decision thereafter in which he didn’t put his family’s interests first. If he had other aspirations, we didn’t know it. If he’d given anything up for us, we weren’t aware of it. If he wanted to do more or see more or experience more, he recognized early that what he wanted didn’t really matter anymore if it meant his children or wife would be adversely affected. It seemed everything he did, he did for us. Nor was it always easy for him—my oldest brother’s birth was traumatic and as such he was born profoundly affected with cerebral palsy—to this day, my brother Mark cannot walk or talk or care for himself at all, and yet steadfastly my parents have cared for him all their lives. One of my earliest memories is of seeing my father, holding my oldest brother (who sometimes had trouble sleeping as a child) on his knee late into the night while my father studied. At the time, my father was working on his Master’s degree (not to pursue his own intellectual interests, mind you; he went so he’d be better able to support his family)—he worked full-time all day, went to school at night, and studied after that. Yet how like him, that he would even take care of Mark well into the night so my mother could rest when he was probably more tired than she. My second brother became an insulin dependent diabetic at the age of five—I distinctly remember, although I was only three, seeing my mother sobbing and weeping because her second child was in a coma, hovering between life and death—and my father was there, trying to comfort her and telling her everything would be all right. I remember being very afraid—I knew enough to know Michael was very sick and not at home; I overheard my father telling my grandmother Michael’s “odds are 50/50” although I had no idea what that meant, but still my father took the time to notice me, sitting on the stairs with tears running down my face, frightened and feeling all alone by all these things I couldn’t understand—illness and possible death; my mother’s hysteria—to pick me up onto his lap, comfort me, and make a little joke to make me smile. He just coped, quietly and patiently. And so very early on, I formed the opinion that nothing could make my father come undone.
He didn't spoil us, either. He had high standards for our behavior but understood when, humanly, we made mistakes. If he had to punish us, he would. He was temperate in his praise, though he gave it when we earned it. He didn't want us to grow up full of false pride or empty vanity; he wanted us to be aware of our own strengths and weaknesses. Again, because of this, I formed the opinion that his way was the right way.
Those early views of him I formed, as well as others, were absolutely correct. I’m not apt to idealize people, to see them as perfect—but if my father has a major character flaw, I still haven’t figured out what it is after almost forty-one years. Even Malkhos can't find one, so it isn't just me.
One of the realities of life is that no one can pick who your parents are—I just happened to get pretty lucky in that department. And even if I am mostly like my father, there’s one thing I know about that—I’ll never be, fully, what he is.
