Happy birthday, Dad

Today is my father's birthday...or, rather it would be if he was still alive. He would have turned 72 today. He's been dead for just over 8 years.

While I was growing up, I'd never have nominated him for a "Father of the Year" award. Life in our house revolved around him. He wanted to sit in his recliner and watch TV in silence every night. I remember I was still young when I started looking forward to Thursday nights because he would be gone to his civic club meeting, leaving the rest of us to enjoy ourselves. He was never physically abusive. I don't think he planned to be emotionally abusive but that was how it felt often. I remember dreading being around him at times. He was insistent that the "outside world" know only what a great man he was. He was always funny and talkative to others. To his family, he was grumpy and snarly.

As a child, viewing things with a child's understanding of things, there were times I almost hated him. Now, looking back with an adult's viewpoint, I realize he was truly mentally ill. I heard the words as a child but couldn't (or didn't want to) process what that actually entailed. With some prodding from my mom, he sought some treatment and, I guess, did the best he could. (My mom did most of the parenting and I have no complaints in that department.)

Now, I see things from a different point of view. The negative stuff has faded or dulled. It's still there and there are memories that almost take me right back to the bad times. However, my overwhelming memories now are better. He worked long hours and contributed to the family income. My mom had two bouts with cancer when I was in elementary school and I remember Dad being helpful during those rough times. I worked in the family business he owned, and even though it wasn't always a pleasant atmosphere, there were lots of good times, too. There were a few memorable vacations. I remember trekking though woods to cut down the world's ugliest Christmas tree. He took me to get my ears pierced when I was 12. He got me a duck for Easter one year.

I think of my relationship with him often as I deal with my kids. They've come to me via the foster care system and that alone speaks volumes about their pasts. We just seem to have such different views of the bad stuff from our pasts. Even as a teen, I knew I never wanted to be or do anything like my father did. The foster kids (including the one's I've adopted) seem hell-bent on doing exactly what their bio parents did. They are able to verbalize what went wrong in their bio families and can even say, "I never want to be/do that." However, when the time comes for them to start making their own decisions, I see the exact opposite. I see them doing things exactly like their bio parents did. I wonder why I was able to see what was wrong in my family growing up and make some changes to insure I didn't turn out just like that. I guess the stabilizing factor of my mom made that possible. By the time kids get to my house, both parents and all extended family have been exhausted as placements for whatever reason.

Anyway, now that I'm old and wise (hahaha), I can view my father for what he was - my father. He contributed to my life in many ways - biologically and environmentally. He wasn't always perfect, but I choose to believe he did his best. As an adult I can make that choice. Dwelling on the negative hurts me. Fondly remembering the positives may be giving him a little more credit than he is due, but it helps me move on, so to speak.

He did contribute even more after his death. He left his body to a medical school. After he died, they drove down and picked him up. I have no idea what they did with him. They had to option to keep him up to three years. The best I can remember, they kept him about two. After that, my brother got a letter that our father's "cremains" would be arriving via parcel post. He did. Not everyone can say their father was mailed to them. We disposed of his ashes, as he requested for the most part. Most of him is where he wanted to be scattered. A little of him is where my brother and I wanted.

He also left us some cash. My brother and I split it without any major problems. I decided to use my share as a down payment on a new house. A few months after he died, I started looking for a bigger house. I had 3 foster daughters crammed into one bedroom at my old house because the teenage foster son had to have his own room, obviously. We looked and looked. I was hoping to find one closer to my school but those houses weren't the quality of home that I wanted. I wanted something built in the 70s that could handle the abuse dished out by a houseful of foster kids. I found the perfect home less than two miles from my old house. It had been on the market for a year. The owners (who had the house built) had retired, built a new house, and had already moved out. I made a low offer and the real estate agent just wrote down a random date for the estimated date of closing. She picked May 1st, telling me it likely wouldn't actually happen on that date but that she had to write something down. Wouldn't you know it - I closed on my home, using money my father left me, on his birthday. It just felt right.

Now, eight years later, here I am in my house that I love. I think of Dad from time to time. He wasn't always easy to get along with but he was my father. I'm choosing to remember the good stuff and move on. By adopting my daughters, I've become a mom in this house. He never met my forever kids. He'd been gone almost 3 years by the time I got Alli. I have to think, if he was able, he'd have enjoyed my girls. They are definitely good for a few laughs from time to time.

So...Thanks, Dad. Happy birthday!