As existential (and perhaps depressing) as it is, do you ever sit and have a moment with yourself about how your parents – and thereby you – are getting older?
Last month, I had this thought after selecting another ridiculous Father’s Day card from the weak selection at the supermarket. I had memories of when my dad would always joke about how lackluster the celebrations are for Father’s Day historically in comparison to Mother’s Day.
And he’s not wrong… just look at those two days on social media or take a drive around your town.
Whatever the outdated notion, our fathers are half of our genetic makeup and, for many of us, our lifeline in different areas. And as such, they deserve their dues.
Growing up, my dad worked easily 60+ hour weeks to provide – in small part because he just didn’t want to be home (family is great, but so is sanity). We weren’t rich, but definitely comfortable by most standards. I hesitate to use the word spoiled because of its negative connotations, but… spoiled. Christmas mornings were the Holy Grail.
When he was present after a long day at work, he was exhausted, but still often played childish games with us. He was known for being one of the only adults at family gatherings and parties that would run around and entertain the kids because he was a big child himself.
From nightly viewings of Seinfeld to the ultimate New York love of the Yankees, there were a few essential pieces of culture that my father imparted to me. He was never really a teacher of the basic things a ‘man should know’, like changing a tire, playing sports, hard labor or things of that variety; again, working 60 hour weeks doesn’t leave a lot of time for that, but nonetheless he always tried to instill a sense of morals in us.
For a few years in early adolescence, we were a bit of a joint unit against the backdrop of chaos that was our household. My mother was in and out of rehab and my brother was going through his teenage years full of wild activities and questionable paraphernalia.
We made jokes about my mom and brother and their ridiculousness – we had a bond in that dysfunctional way.
I worked at his store and we were together quite often as I was also fairly antisocial for a few awkward years. We would grab dinners, watch movies and bullshit. He’d take me to the mall on a Sunday and pass out in a chair in Barnes & Noble somewhere while I ran around for a couple hours.
On the other end, he was experiencing the struggles of adulthood moments, the frustration of which got taken out on us at times. You look back and realize how our parents are people too that are learning as they go through this life – and that includes raising kids, which has no basic instruction manual and has little consistency.
Parent-child relationships have diverse chapters and things can always turn on a dime, particularly in the teen years, where it’s almost required that you get into debates and standoffs with one or both of your parents.
Most of my arguments with my dad were about petty nonsense, like wanting a car or something in the house not being up to par. The balls on me to complain about anything, right?
For more serious matters, I was conscientious of giving him very little hassle for a couple of reasons.
For one, dealing with my mother’s demons was taking all sorts of tolls on him that I was only mildly seeing in addition to juggling a full-time job, his own neuroses and handling the antics of his kids.
On a more superficial, selfish note, he was so generous and accommodating with finances that I couldn’t complain. I know he didn’t think just throwing some money at us made up for being so preoccupied in other ways – if anything, I know a sense of guilt was the reason he felt the urge to give us whatever we desired. I generally didn’t ask for more than the basics, but it was rarely a question.
So, even though in hindsight the love was in the form of money over time very often, I knew the care was there and loved the freedom it gave me. A psychologist might have other thoughts, but oh well, it worked for us.
With time and age though, your parents are your biggest teachers. Whether they actually inform you of certain knowledge or you watch them make mistakes through the trial and error of their lives, it leaves an imprint on you. In quite the unexpected way, many of our biggest lessons come from Mom and Dad.
My father was and is, as mentioned, one of the most generous people I’ve ever met. Whether that is lending someone money, helping them out with an odd job or giving them a ride, he has went above and beyond for others. Many have commented to me in passing their appreciation for him – he is known for that.
This is a great thing, but has become a negative at times in the form of people trying to take advantage of said kindness. Despite some encounters with unsavory characters, my father’s altruistic approach to others and the world has barely changed, but has shaped part of my outlook.
While I looked at some interactions as a mix of unnecessary naiveté and unyielding optimism, it became one of my greatest takeaways from being his son. I learned how I do and don’t want to operate in the world in terms of dealing with others. I learned you must always do your due diligence and be careful who you trust.
Another lesson and perhaps the most important in our lives came when my mother died. There was a natural shift in the family. You become accustomed to a particular dynamic, but when something pivotal like that happens, it shakes everything up.
For one, you now have one parent and in part of that grief, the exasperation of years for aspects of both parents now gets zeroed in on one.
The proverbial anger stage of grief hit me randomly during disagreements with my father and I said crazy things and launched items across the room among other well-adjusted reactions. I debate relaying this information and have shame for those moments, but grief is a blurry tsunami of effects. It was so out of character, but I didn’t care in the moment.
I would apologize to my father immediately because I was wrong, but I also realized he was going through a monumental loss too and trying to figure out how to navigate the rest of his life without his wife and best friend etc.
In those times, as mentioned earlier, you really come to understand that our parents are just people living life like anyone else.
They make mistakes, say foul things, can do bad things and are doing the best they can – for themselves, but more than that, for their kids. It’s such a selfless, instinctual act. While still frustrated at times, I had to realize the impact.
These days, my father and I have a fine relationship and our rapport is generally what it’s always been at its core – blunt, observational and full of silly banter. I get on his case about taking care of his health, eating right and have occasional spats about how to live life. The circle of life is real.
Like many of our parents, he is older and set in his ways and that goes against what I may perceive as correct or rational at times. No matter the age, the dynamic between parent and child always has similar elements, just with different shades.
He was always the provider, the makeshift mechanic, the comedian and most importantly a source of support. He was also one of my biggest bases of aggravation and education though. He made me understand that to be human is to err and you can’t place expectations on anyone.
More than anything, every day should be a day that you go forward with the knowledge that, if you were so lucky like me, your dad provided you with more than anything you ever really needed and that amounts to more than any minor discrepancies. It’s good to remember that more than every once in a blue or on a birthday or Hallmark holiday.
For me, one of the most indispensable pieces of information was that it does not matter how many unused plastic ShopRite bags you have shoved in a cabinet somewhere – you should NEVER throw them out. And that has nothing to do with the environment… you just might need them for something five years from now. YOU JUST NEVER KNOW.
mark.angiello 