Fathers & Daughters

They say women end up marrying their fathers. I always had this vague idea that I would not be one of those women.

And I went about my life, meeting various men, dating some of them, not really finding "the one." But always dating men who were most definitely not "just like dear ol' dad."

Then one day I met Joe, and he was everything I wanted in a husband. I knew this to be true because I had a list. And so we did get married, because I fit his list, too. Yes, he had a list. That's how we knew we were going to be perfect for each other. That and the mutual fear and loathing of mayonnaise and salad dressing. I mean, really, if that doesn't spell match made in heaven, what does?

And just like I thought he would be, he was nothing like my father. Tall, blonde, & pale. Dirt bikes & Jeeps. Road trips & dogs. None of the things one would associate with my dad.

But then three months into marriage while trying to consolidate two households into one, I came across my fourteenth pile of 10-year-old magazines and my 342nd out-of-date coupon. I stopped to think about it and realized we were 76 days into our research on which cordless telephone to add to our household. And I took a look around and saw, clearly for the first time, the piles and piles of things stacked in the garage because "we might need it someday."

And then it hit me. Despite all my best efforts, I had married my father. I laughed about it. I rolled my eyes about it. But not until more than the passage of a year did I start to understand what marrying my dad really means.

It all started when Joe started musing about where would be best for us to live. Almost every thought ended with “… would be good for when we have kids” or “…wouldn’t be the best for the kids.” As the “the future” kept being discussed, phrases like, “Well, if it’s best for my family, then that’s what I’ll do” popped up regularly.

Which got me thinking . . . Dad didn’t have to come home early to coach Little League or spend Saturdays at baseball games and swim meets. He certainly didn’t have to spend his valuable vacation time carting his family to visit “Gram & Pop” or take the kids to Disneyland. Long nights working on calculus homework or building 4th grade missions are not prerequisites for being a father. It’s certainly not a requirement that a dad fix his teenagers’ cars or even give them cars to begin with. Lots of dads get away without co-signing loans or paying for weddings. And if he regrets any of that now, I sure can’t tell.

So I guess what I’m saying is, if 30 years from now, “I love you” comes out in the form of “Did you check your oil?” and I’m still surrounded by piles and piles of magazines . . . I’m okay with that.