The Bond Between a Father & Son

So my Father and I had a great relationship growing up…he taught me a thing or two, never really nagged me about my grades, or pushed me in one direction or another.  Of course I was an exemplary child so he didn’t really have a lot to be concerned with.  Remember, what goes on your juvi record, stays on your juvi record.

My Dad was a trapper as a kid during WWII.  Growing up we still had his traps tucked away in the garage.  My brother and I were told never to touch the traps…“danger”.  Naturally the couple of times I snapped the mothers on my fingers, I’d have to run around the garage screaming in silence.

My father taught my brother and I how to fish.  One of the things you learn at a young age with fishing is that any kind of squeamishness will not be tolerated.  It was usually a great time unless we were heading to the jersey shore for Flounder.  The bait used was the dreaded “Sand Worm.”  If you’re not familiar, they’re a good size worm with a billion small legs, kind of like a centipede.  The vile creatures have one terrible attribute.  They have four very strong spike-like teeth in their mouths.  If you’re 10 years old, and they grab onto the tip of your finger - not good.  Usually, I’d belt out a manly, “AAAGGGHHH”.   Then my father would turn around in the rowboat, look in complete disappointment and call me “Mary.”

The only other time we came to major disagreement was when my father thought it was time that I got a haircut.  My Dad’s feeling was if it was over the top of your ears…or if you listened to rock’n’roll music you were a Hoople-Head.  It was the 70s so I was a member in good standing of the Jersey Chapter of Hoople-Heads.

I remember after one such disagreement, I looked my father in the face and told him that when I was a father, I wouldn’t be such a royal pain.  He looked back at me and said, “Well when you get to be a Dad, we’ll see if you do any better.”  I remember thinking to myself, “Well that wouldn’t take too much.”  Luckily I had the good sense to keep that thought to myself; otherwise I’d have been picking my head up off from the floor.

Fast-forward some years…I have my first child…a son.

I’m thrilled and imagine our relationship to be something like a Norman Rockwell painting where the young son is staring up at the father in complete harmony.

A couple of notions to dispel, 1) you do not necessarily have more patience for your kids by having them later in life…unless of course you’re 90 and can’t remember what they did 5 minutes ago.  There used to be a phrase about being a “90s kind of Dad”.  It had a connotation of being progressive, patient, and generally “with it.”  When trouble comes calling, I always start out being a 90s kind of Dad.  Unfortunately the usual case is that I quickly degenerate and sail back through the decades to a 50s Dad where my knuckles are dragging on the ground and then my head explodes.  With my son’s help I’ve become an expert at time travel.

Number two, your kids will not necessarily be good at or like the things you did growing up.  Early on my wife enlightened me with a key phrase, “Its not about you, its about him.”  Blah Blah Blah!  Okay I get it…I may not like it, but I get it.

But what I really appreciate now is the incredulous look on his face when I suggest we do something together.  It’s as if he’s saying, “What in your wildest dreams would possess you to think that was even an option.”  It’s so touching…I see a lot of yard work in his future.

But there is some payback I get to enjoy now, some without even trying…too hard.  I’m an embarrassment to my kids.  For instance, we’re out to a late breakfast with friends at rural diner in PA.  I decide to wear my Chicago “Cubby-Bear” tank top.  Now granted this shirt is about 20 years old and has seen better days, but it’s a classic, so I wear it…a lot.  As we’re waiting for a table, my wife and I notice that my son is looking at me with a pained face of disapproval.  My wife looks at me, then at him, and in a tone that suggests she agrees with him (Thank You Very Much!) asks, “What, too much skin?  My charming son’s response, “No, Too Much PELT.”  In retaliation I explain to him it’s a hereditary condition and he can expect his coat to arrive in less than a year.

My son just got his driver’s license.  Considering how much he’s told me he already knows about life in general and that he doesn’t need my advice, I have a new level of stress and insomnia that I never dreamed possible.   You’d think considering everything I’ve learned from the volumes of mistakes I’ve made in my life…he’d want my advice. …”Never use a weed-whacker when wearing flip-flops; Remember, Swiss Army knives do NOT have a lock on the blade; Motorcycles = Danger; Never ingest gasoline”…need I say more.