Photo by Sudhith Xavier on Unsplash

I must have started six posts this week. They all seem wrong. And I’m finally figuring out why. It’s because — Father’s Day.

The kindest thing I can say about my old man was that he managed not to beat me like he was beaten as a kid — because certainly my grandparents were not parent material. But he was not really parent material either.

And what do you do with that? I’ve got a shit ton of friends who have great dads. I’m happy for them. I know what a good dad looks like whenever I see my son in law with my grand daughters. I take that back — I know what a GREAT dad looks like when I look at my son in law with my grand daughters.

But I stopped having a parent in my life when I was twelve. Completely. I damn near died when the man refused to take me to the doctor for appendicitis… for three days. He didn’t believe in doctors. Like they’re Santa Claus or something…

Yeah — still bitter about that one because the scar is not just emotional — it’s also physical and impressive as hell.

But I have this deal with The Universe — this can’t just be me whining about my bad childhood — it has to have some kind of moral to the story. So I’m going to try to dig it out here at the end.

Somehow we mostly survive our parents. The good, the bad, & the ugly. And at some point in time — likely around age 13 — I figured out if I wanted my life to work out to be something, I had to take the reins. So I did. Because my father was not going to be an asset in that department.

We can not blame our lives on our parents forever.

Eventually I built a family. And then my family built their own families. And I have to tell you — my kids kick complete ass at that. They are THE BEST FAMILY EVER.

As it turns out The Universe knows what She is doing after all. Who knew?


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