It’s Father’s Day…

And I wish that it felt more like something I should be smiling about instead of this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

For two reasons.

I don’t think my fatherhood is anything to celebrate. I know that when I say that it irritates people who love me because in their biased eyes I am a good father. I do things which people like to tell me makes me a good father: I call my sons everyday and I travel 800km every second weekend to see them. And sure… they are the undisputed, absolute priority in my life and I will do anything I can to make sure they have everything they need. And, yes… their names are tattooed proudly on my arm. But… I’m often not there when they get hurt or when they have a bad day. And, ultimately, I have never been there when I most wanted to be. Compared to some real arseholes out there, sure… I’m a great dad. And I appreciate people telling me that. But… being a better-then-that-arsehole doesn’t make me a good father.

In my heart, I am a too-often-absent father. And one that wrote cheques on my son’s behalf.

But those are my ghosts… And they’re okay. I have them under control. What I am struggling with at the moment is how I feel towards my own dad.

The unaffected viewpoint would paint a picture of a man. A hard man. A proud man. A man who taught me how to dream and who gave me the safety net to be able to do so. The man who would give the shirt off his back to anyone who needed it. The soldier I wish I could be. The engineer. The son. The husband. The brother. The grandfather. The father.

But why do I strive, then, to not be the worst of him? Why do I recognise the worst of him in me? And why do I compare myself all the time and, in doing so, try so hard to see the things that I don’t like about him? Like the intolerance for other people. Like the inconsiderate smoking, the vicious beatings I got as a child that seem less like a family joke now and more like what they were. Like the immovable, uncompassionate, hard, difficult, grumpy person he has always seemed to be. Why do the most hurtful things he has said to me resonate so much louder then the kind, supportive ones? Why do I wish so much that he had come to watch me play sport more often and spent a little less time with everyone else and more time with me, when all of that was so long ago that it shouldn’t matter anymore?

And why is all of this bugging me? When I know that it is nothing more then a few uncomfortable bumps in what has been an awesome journey. And who am I, really, to be able to pass judgement?

Probably because, on days like today, I still think that the worst of my father is still better then the best of me.

So that’s probably three reasons then.

~ by Norm on June 19, 2011.