During this year of blogs, I have
told a lot of stories about my father. His
presence consumed my childhood. He was
difficult, strict, judgmental, and closed-minded. It made growing up very difficult. As a child, you are hardwired to want to
please your parents and there was just no pleasing him. When I got straight As he would complain that
there was no room for improvement. A 97
on an exam was not acceptable if someone else achieved a 98. If I had a triumphant piano performance he
would ask what I was going to do tomorrow to top it. He had a short fuse that could ignite without
warning. Whoa be to he who became caught
in his crosshairs.
Despite how hard he was on me, I
never doubted that he loved me with every inch of his being. This was obvious when I met any of his
friends, who seemed, over the years, to know more about my accomplishments than
my father ever acknowledged to my face.
They must have doubted the existence of the far-away daughter who led a
charmed life of top schools, glamorous concert venues, and the fast pace of corporate
life. He made me sound unreal. It took well into my 40s before he would ever
admit that he was proud of me.
I remember when I was very young—the
only girl of my family’s generation—having a very peculiar exchange with my father. Pointedly, he made me promise that no matter
what, I would always be his little girl.
He made me say it, “I promise I will
always be your little girl.” Then he
underscored it by saying, “Someday you will want to tell me that you aren’t my
little girl any more. You can NEVER say
that now.” At the time, it seemed like a
ridiculous conversation to me. I was
oblivious to the manipulative undertones of such a statement, but he understood
what I was then too young to understand.
The day would come when I could no longer be held to that promise.
My father loved testing
people. A man of strong and slanted
positions, he would try to outwit people in arguments, proving that his opinions
were right. He would twist things so
that even when he was dead wrong, he retained the ability to justify his own
righteousness to himself. He had a way
of creating conflict where none was necessary—feeling at his most comfortable
and superior in the throes of verbal battle.
What he perceived as his greatest strength, I came to recognize as his
greatest weakness. His scheme went awry
when my husband entered the picture. Tom
was a man of his own mind, not subject to the power my father had cultivated
over his family. My father tried again
and again to dominate us, or to divide us against each other. My father was never able to convince my
husband to take his side against me. It was the end of a relationship based on
manipulation and dominance. Inevitably,
my father had to be told, “I am not your little girl anymore.” It wounded him deeply, as I knew it would;
however, when he recovered we began a different sort of relationship. I won’t say that he ever saw me as an equal,
but he did begin to see me as an adult.
Through the years, we had a lot
of fun with my father. My husband and he
developed a close relationship of shared interests, including skiing and mixing
the perfect dry martini. My children
anticipated a visit from ‘Grampa’ the way most kids look forward to Santa
Claus. They loved his excessive bear
hugs and wrestling with him on the floor.
He loved to go to my son’s youth hockey games or to watch my daughter
figure skate. He was larger than life
and full of laughs. He turned to my
husband for his extensive oral surgery needs, declaring my husband to be “the
best doctor he knows.”
We lost my father nearly three
years ago, well before his time. I will
always remember vividly the challenges of being his daughter, but I also
remember a man who loved with all his heart.
Even when I feared my father the most, I never doubted the depth of his
love. It was his way. And as much as I wanted him to accept me for
the person I am, I had to learn to love him as he was. Strangely, that was the easy part.
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