Dad and me

Monday night is tae-kwan-do night. Usually I am on a deadline or too slammed with work to accompany Schmoopie so the GITB takes her. Because he is an accomplished kick-boxer, he enjoys going and watching his girl. Other nights the GITB will poke his head in the study and say: "Honey, I will pay you $100 to take her tonight," and I sigh and turn off the computer and she and I head out. (We used to have these bargaining sessions re: changing her diaper. He actually did pay me a few times to change a particularly poopy diaper when it was, in fact, HIS turn at the changing table. And did I keep the money? Hell yeah. Mommies need sassy shoes too, girl.)

I love going, actually, because my kid is graceful and lithe and whirls across the floor brandishing her bow-staff like a translucent fairy charged with turbo-pixie dust -- a dangerous one who is now a black belt candidate. I delight in watching the awe on the faces of the boys in her class (all about 3-5 years older) as she flies past them, golden braids whirring like humming birds on either side of her head, completely oblivious to their admiring stares. She is sweetness and speeding havoc and little girl and she-devil all rolled into one. It's heavenly watching her take flight.

So last night I was sitting there transfixed when the door of the auditorium opened and the click of the handle distracted me. When I turned to look, my dad was strolling in. He strode very purposefully toward me, definitely a man on a mission. For a moment my heart quickened and the thought that something might be wrong with my mom skittered through my mind, but I reminded myself that were this the case he would call me on my cell phone which is never not in my pocket. But nevertheless, his appearance alarmed me. He comes to watch Schmoopie in action at class maybe once a month and always when she tests for a new belt, but he is overly-concerned about not "interfering" and he would never want to be construed as being intrusive. He has always been that way--polite to the point of absurd. He respects my adult-ness and my role as a parent and I am appreciative of that but I wish he would quit feeling like he has to ask permission to hang around. Anyway. So Dad comes and sits next to me and calls me by my first name, which no one else does (except for one other soul on the planet--they know who they are) and asks me in a very concerned tone of voice how I am.

"Are you okay--I mean, is your health alright?"

"Yeah, Dad, I'm fine. Why?"

"Your mom and I are a little concerned that something may be bothering you. You seemed so distracted during the holidays and we're wondering if everything is okay..."

"Dad--I'm fine. Really. Maybe it's a midlife thing, I don't know. I've been thinking about a lot of stuff that I usually don't think about -- you know -- I wonder what's going to happen when Schmoopie leaves for college, I mean, what do I want to do with the rest of life, all that shit."

Dad looked across the auditorium and squinted, focused on Schmoopie as she ran and jumped and kicked and pirouetted through a line of sweaty, gaggly boys.

"You know, I feel bad that I wasn't around much when you were her age. I don't really even remember you at this age. I guess I was gone too much."

Dad then went on to remark about my brother and all the traveling he does and his concern that my two nieces are missing out on quality time with their daddy.

I said: "He does a great job with them, Dad. He's a great daddy and they know above all else that their Daddy loves them. That's all that really matters."

Dad turned to me and said: "I'm concerned that you didn't feel loved when you were growing up. Did you feel like you were loved?"

Me: "Jesus, Dad, yes. What is going on? Are YOU in okay health?"

Dad: "I'm fine, fine."

We were silent for a minute as we watched our girl, the sweet-faced dervish.

Then Dad said: "Because if there's anything you need, anything at all, you can come to me, you know. You'll let me know?"

"Sure Dad, yeah. I'm fine."

And that was the end of that. It's funny how here I am, all grown up with a family and a career (I guess) and a big fat life packed with loud, noisy and loving family and friends, freedom and resources to do pretty much whatever the hell I please, swimming in art and beauty and all the things that I need to be happy and yet my parents can still detect something not quite right every now and then. It must be the unparalleled power of DNA. They know me so well. It's maddening sometimes.

Driving home I thought about the evening I got married (14 years ago--God!!), standing in the back of the church with my dad as he and my uncle hovered over me like two anxious nellies. It was a windy November evening, the end of hurricane season in Florida and a tropical storm was brewing. Rain hit the stained-glass windows in staccato splats as it whipped off the palm trees with each gust of wind. Just before we started to make that long walk down the aisle, my dad and my uncle had this little unspoken exchange and then cleared their throats and stood in front of me, blocking my view of the aisle, of the packed church and the grinning groom waiting for me on the dais.

"You know honey, you can change your mind," Dad said.

"WHAT????!!!!!" I sputtered through my veil, clenching my bouquet of roses and gardenias.

"Really, Uncle Paul and I want you to know that you can still change your mind--even now. It's okay. No one would be upset with you."

And I know it sounds odd, but that was the most wonderful moment I have ever had with my dad. I didn't perceive this as a judgment on my judgment or an attack on my soon-to-be-husband. My family liked the GITB and they were all happy for me. No, it was an acknowledgment of the weight of the moment and a declaration of love from the two men who had the biggest hands in raising me. If I wanted to run screaming from the church, they would aid and abet me. If not, that was great too. They just wanted me to know I had options and they backed me no matter what. That's love--it really was a kind and loving gesture. And I did pause and take a deep breath and savor the moment before I slipped my hands through their arms and walked down the aisle, one on either side of me.

I guess that's a big piece of what being a parent is all about--it is a job that never ends. And that's what's nice about it.