If he were an asshole to my kids, things would be easier. But he’s not. Image: Thinkstock.
I was not beaten or assaulted in any way in my childhood; my dad was just a jerk.
My father was in town for a 36-hour visit recently, combining us with a business trip. My sons were thrilled and gave him all the attention any 60-something could want.
We went out to the desert for a campfire at our favorite hiking spot, and my dad got into Teacher Mode: He broke out his knife and taught the boys how to whittle.
It was sweet. I took some pictures of this Rockwellian tableau of kids and grandfather sharing an activity. (But still, who carries a knife when going on a business trip? Maybe executive life is different than I imagine.)
There was a bit of conversation about not stabbing people — teachable moments, yo — and I mentioned being nice. You know, mom stuff.
Grandpa concurred.
I said something like, “Aunt Liz and I weren’t very nice when we were growing up. We thought it was more important to be smart, but we were wrong. It is much more important to be kind than smart.”
This is a common theme, the way I’ve come up with to discuss my Very Unhappy Childhood casually, yet honestly.
Then grandpa chimed in. “Too bad neither of them were smart either.”
In a split second, I flew back in time 20, 30 years.
I’d love my kids to get the good parts of my dad.
Of course we aren’t smart. That’s what I thought, till I went to college at a top university and realized I kept up just fine. That’s what I thought, till I was told I was too smart to be a teacher. I still thought I was average and not-too-smart when any number of other situations told me that maybe I had a decent brain.
Same goes for thinking I was decent-looking, a good person, funny, or any other quality a person might hope to have.
I was not beaten or assaulted in any way in my childhood; my dad was just a jerk.
Apparently building up children's self-esteem is for suckers: If you keep your kids desperate for affection of any kind, they're a lot more likely to do what you tell them to.
I could write a book about it, but I won’t. Needless to say, the relationship is complicated. I’m still waiting for the man to tell me he’s proud of me — even though I hate myself for wanting it.
But I have kids. And dad? He’s still married to my mother. I believe that more loving adults in a child’s life is a good thing.
If he were an asshole to my kids, things would be easier. But he’s not. He’s good with them. He’s his best self. It makes me alternately happy and heartbroken.
I’ve got boundaries — this visit was the first time he’s slept at my house in at least five years. I try to protect myself from wanting what he can’t give. I also try to be honest with my kids, which takes the form of conversations like we had camping.
But there are others where I say that grandpa is a lot nicer as a grandpa than as a dad.
They know I was punished, a lot, and that lots of my mom choices are a reaction to my childhood.
Is this the best way? I have no idea.
I’d love my kids to get the good parts of my dad — the zest for the outdoors, the odd vocabulary words, the faith. The second he demeans one of them, though, this conversation is over. I’m not putting them in that situation where they feel their soul shrivel up.
It’s a work in progress, like most things.
