Father's Day

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Now I know most people don't take Father's Day very seriously, and the holiday is all about goofy golf cards, ties, and a free nap pass for the dads. I totally respect that, it is as normal as can be.

I used to get depressed on Father's Day, like a lot of people get depressed on Valentine's Day. I'd mope around, wishing I had a normal father-daughter relationship and could stick a "Daddy's Little Girl" bumper sticker on my car. Don't get me wrong, there's not a thing wrong with my Dad, he's a peach.

What happened was your basic kidnapping. It was 1972 and my parents were going through a divorce (something about mom and my dad's bridge partner, but that's another blog) and my mom moved my three sisters and I to an apartment building a stone's throw from my dad's house. The only things I remember about that time in the apartment is learning from mom's boyfriend that Cold Duck was not make from ducks, and me--all of five years old--running away from home. To my dad's house.

I was too young to know exactly what was going on, but the upshot was the boyfriend moved to Colorado and wanted mom to join him (he didn't want her bringing her kids, but I guess she was banking on changing his mind. He didn't.) When my dad strongly resisted this idea (cops, lawyers) she decided to handle things her way: she gave us sleeping pills (ages: 3, 5, 9, 11) and drove us to Colorado in the middle of the night.

We grew up in Colorado, moving to increasingly poorer and more dangerous neighborhoods, even being removed from our home by Social Services. Our dad would visit at least once a year, often the only bright spot of that year. Eventually, mom moved up in the world and came into a lot of money. We moved to the all-white, middle-class suburb for our middle and high school years. So many tragic and horrible things happened in our childhood, it's a wonder all four of us aren't serial killers.

It wasn't until college, when my younger sister and I went to stay with our dad, did we re-establish a relationship with our dad. When we told him everything that we'd been through, and he told us everything he'd been through, we were stunned into silence. Everything sort of came together and was somehow resolved in our minds.

Well, my mind still isn't resolved. For years, I couldn't figure out why I hated Colorado or why I would have panic attacks every time I went back there. Through the wonders of psychotherapy, all was revealed: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Yeah, that's right, me and Vietnam Veterans and the families of 9/11 victims. I do feel stupid, thanks for asking.

Apparently I was exactly the right age and temperment to be deeply traumatized by the separation between me and my dad. Which reminded me that when anyone in the family talks about that time around mom, she often says to me, with no small amount of disgust, "You cried for a whole year." Ok! This is all starting to make sense now.

Interestingly, now that I know this, it's no problem to go to Colorado.

Back to Father's Day: I guess you have a feeling now for why I take Father's Day a tad more seriously than the average daughter. My dad is a loving, caring, smart, and extremely goofy guy who can answer every question on Jeopardy and talks babytalk to the cats. I love my Dad.

Happy Father's Day, Trouble's Dad!