Wednesday - Baby Builds a Bridge
Jan. 18th, 2006 12:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermoreToday on the drive into work, I was thinking about the message my father left on my answering machine yesterday.
"...this is your Dad," he began, as always, "We haven't seen you in awhile, and I was just wondering if the baby is riding a bike yet, since it's been so long. We're available to babysit on Sunday, if you need us."
It's been 2 weeks since he has seen my son. During the first few months of my son's life, my father always wanted to know if "he was walking yet." Since he now is walking, I guess the bike-riding question is the one I'll be fielding for the next couple of years.
My father and I went for years in a semi-estranged state. We would go for months with no contact with one another. When I was growing up, I was his only daughter and his favorite of his four children. We had a falling out when I was 18 years old and over night I went from being able to do no wrong to being able to do no right in his eyes. The worst thing about sitting on a pedestal, I discovered, was that the only way to come down from the thing is to fall from grace; the problem with falling from grace is that it hurts like hell.
The biggest problem for my father and I has long been that we are too much alike. Both of us were too proud to take the first step and reach out to the other.
"You really should talk to your father," my husband has told me on numerous occasions.
"He really should talk to me," I would respond.
"He's not going to. You have to reach out to him. He's not going to be around forever," Jeff would counter. His own father died years before we met. I think the fact that I still had a father but didn't talk to him drove Jeff nuts.
The birth of my son changed everything. Before my son even learned how to hold his head up, he managed to build a rudimentary bridge between his mother and his grandfather. For the first time in the better part of 2 decades, we are at least trying.
"You did good," my father will tell me when he looks at his grandson. This statement doesn't sound like much, but for a man like my father who doesn't like to use words, it represent a treatise on the topic of forgiveness.
"Thank you," I say. Having gone so long without doing anything right, it's good to hear him say this. For that moment, at least, the past 18 years become watter under the bridge my baby son has built.
"...this is your Dad," he began, as always, "We haven't seen you in awhile, and I was just wondering if the baby is riding a bike yet, since it's been so long. We're available to babysit on Sunday, if you need us."
It's been 2 weeks since he has seen my son. During the first few months of my son's life, my father always wanted to know if "he was walking yet." Since he now is walking, I guess the bike-riding question is the one I'll be fielding for the next couple of years.
My father and I went for years in a semi-estranged state. We would go for months with no contact with one another. When I was growing up, I was his only daughter and his favorite of his four children. We had a falling out when I was 18 years old and over night I went from being able to do no wrong to being able to do no right in his eyes. The worst thing about sitting on a pedestal, I discovered, was that the only way to come down from the thing is to fall from grace; the problem with falling from grace is that it hurts like hell.
The biggest problem for my father and I has long been that we are too much alike. Both of us were too proud to take the first step and reach out to the other.
"You really should talk to your father," my husband has told me on numerous occasions.
"He really should talk to me," I would respond.
"He's not going to. You have to reach out to him. He's not going to be around forever," Jeff would counter. His own father died years before we met. I think the fact that I still had a father but didn't talk to him drove Jeff nuts.
The birth of my son changed everything. Before my son even learned how to hold his head up, he managed to build a rudimentary bridge between his mother and his grandfather. For the first time in the better part of 2 decades, we are at least trying.
"You did good," my father will tell me when he looks at his grandson. This statement doesn't sound like much, but for a man like my father who doesn't like to use words, it represent a treatise on the topic of forgiveness.
"Thank you," I say. Having gone so long without doing anything right, it's good to hear him say this. For that moment, at least, the past 18 years become watter under the bridge my baby son has built.
