It’s hard to believe it’s now been a decade since I lost my dad. This isn’t meant to be a downer, it’s just been on my mind a lot lately, given the recent anniversary, experiencing Father’s Day last month, and something else—one that always catches me by surprise despite the familiarity—the many reminders of him in myself.
It’s probably an inevitable discovery for most, when middle-age fatherhood aligns with parenting of teens. That dynamic will always have differences, such as musical tastes between the generations. And the technology gaps, like phones and computing devices being tethered to walls when I was a kid, and the closest thing to social media was sharing a comic book or VHS copy of Rad with somebody else. The conversations and situations between parent and teen are hauntingly familiar, though, with me experiencing the opposite end now.
Errors in judgment, or a complete lack thereof. Staying up too late. Sleeping in too late. Running late. Turning in assignments late. Not already doing what should’ve been done, or saying “I’m just getting ready to…” Leaving behind a mess, living in one in my room, risking the making of one with my life. Too much attitude, too little gratitude… All these things for which I was reprimanded by my preceding generation are now pouring out of my mouth into the next. The lectures get recycled, echoing the same authoritative but loving but mostly authoritative tone. I even use some of the same words my dad did to describe it all, pronouncing them they exact way he did.
What’s funny is it’s not just the vocabulary. It’s the sounds I make too. The way I sneeze, I realize, is just like him. How I clear my throat, too. The sighs of exasperation. My laugh—not the one when I’m watching Three Amigos, but instead when I’m getting intentionally obnoxious with my sons. I hear him rather than me.
Then there’s the appearance. He kept his hairline much longer than I did, but the profile is the same. There are double-takes when looking at old photos, wondering for a split-second if that was me. I’ve heard comments about shared smiles.
For several adolescent and early-20’s years, I, like most other younger guys I knew, dreaded becoming our fathers—set in their ways, stuck in decades-old fashion trends and musical tastes that didn’t evolve much past college, being a slave to jobs offering limited fulfillment. We swore we’d never become like him. And yet, here I am, looking like him, sounding like him, acting like him, putting out those dad vibes as he once did.
But that’s OK. I’m realizing I was completely wrong in those younger days. At least in my case, “Like father, like son” is actually a good thing—it just took becoming both to fully appreciate it.
As a couple more decades pass, the page will turn again, and my sons may have similar observations. Hopefully they’ll have not only the good genes, but the good recognition that—despite me wanting more for them than I ever had or achieved—following the footsteps of their old man wasn’t so bad after all either. Maybe they’ll even realize I might’ve known a little more than they did while parenting them as teenagers. Especially when they have teenagers of their own.
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