Noted author Phyllis McGinley – famous mostly for penning children’s books – once said: “The thing to remember about fathers is... they're men. Scratch any father and you find someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors, believing change is a threat, like your first shoes with heels on, like your first bicycle.”
Qualms? Absolutely. Through the years I encountered many misgivings and doubts regarding my two daughters, and especially my two sons.
Romantic terrors were also plentiful, led by a seemingly unwashed 17-year-old who only once blew his car horn to summon our oldest daughter for a date.
My wife and I coined the term ‘strays’ for our daughters’ slovenly suitors, and while on the outside we dabbed the tears of teen relationships gone awry our insides often danced like Beyonce’s back-up singers.
In the interest of full disclosure, two of the strays have since married (or are about to marry) into the family, and our oldest daughter now complains that I spend more time with her husband than her. It’s her own fault; wasting all those Sunday afternoons playing with My Little Pony when we could have been bonding over the ins-and-outs of the National Football League.
Change, however, was never a threat. Lamenting the dried-up vein of free household labor aside, empty-nesting meant our formerly dependant children were now independent adults. And it meant our days of full-time parenting - and more specifically full-time worrying - had come to a close. Or so we thought.
In between the weekdays with no regimented dinner hours or nightly curfews and the weekends in an empty, quiet (and clean) house, my wife and I realized we had decades of worrying before us. Are they safe? Do they like their jobs? Can they pay their bills? Why haven’t we heard from them? Are they coming to Sunday dinner?
Suddenly, everything seemed easier when we were all under one roof. Funny how the years blur the memories. We forgot the sibling rivalries and confrontations. We ignored the male teen antics that bordered on juvenile deliquency. We overlooked being the cabbie and the cook and the jack-of-all-trades in addition to our 50-hour-a-week jobs. And we agreed that we slept a little better when we used to lock the front door after all four were nestled safely behind it.
Thankfully, a couple of pitchers of Margaritas brought us to our senses. The fear of our children leaving had been replaced by the trepidations that come with actual departure. We had spent at least 20 years of our lives planting in our children all of the character traits we hoped would make them productive, community-oriented citizens, and it was time to sit back and reap what we had sown.
The leap into independence has brought with it home and car purchases, career decisions and disappointments, weddings and grandbabies. Our job as parents has indeed been reduced to a part-time role – well, more of a consultant position, actually – and our worry has been replaced by confidence they’ll continue making the right decisions.
We did okay with the loneliness factor, too, changing bedrooms into dining rooms and work out rooms and filling the house with furniture that wasn’t laquered with Stainguard.
Although, when I now glimpse my wife contemplatively staring into one of the former bedrooms, I think of how much she misses the four little darlings. And I really miss them, too, especially when I’m raking the yard or shoveling the driveway.
By J. Doug Gill