Many women my age (and their spouses, for that matter) have a strong fear that they will grow up and become their mothers. They worry that they will look like Mom, do or not do things the way Mom did at the same age, or (worse!) say the very same things that Mom used to say. This is absolutely not going to happen to me. Why, you ask? Because I pretty sure I'm turning out to be just like my dad. (Oh My God!!)
I realized this upon awakening this morning. I had apparently attempted, albeit in an amateur fashion, that certain feat that dads around the world have perfected - I fell asleep on the couch instead of going to bed (in dad jargon that's 'resting my eyes'). I woke with a start a little after 1:30 a.m., clutching the remote like a life vest and muttering to nobody in particular 'I'm watching that!'
Those bewitching, magical Pale Hose had me biting off all my nails and churning my shark-self into knots until I could last no more in the bottom of the 11th. The roar from the announcers after Blum's shot heard round the world in the 14th (did I just say the 14th?? Yes I did...WOW!) must have roused me from dreamland. Nothing like a night's sleep tossing and turning on the sofa interrupted by cheering, screaming, fireworks and sneak peeks out the window to see if the second coming was around the corner. No wonder my Dad has tended to be a grump all these years. Many a night in my youth he fell asleep on the couch only to drag off to bed when the national anthem played at the end of the programming day.
Don't get me wrong, though. As much as I have teased and tormented the old man, and even as much as I have cursed and cried over him, I love the geezer (he's only 61 - I guess that's not really a geezer, but I refer you back to the teased and tormented part). Not only am I emulating his mastery of falling asleep in front of the tv, but I'm starting to look like him. I am shaped like his side of the family, and although I have my mother's eyes and nose, I gratefully have his full, Slovak lips (I say gratefully, because this genetic blessing saves me a boatload in not having to get collagen injections!)
A good family joke started several months ago about how I am even starting to think like him. I believe we may have been talking about how much like my mother I am, or maybe I said something pseudo-intelligent (something math oriented maybe?). Pops piped up that I may have my mother's looks, but I definitely got his brain.
Yes, you know the rest - in the grand style of Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, I immediately retorted that his giving me his own brain explains why he acts like such a doofus sometimes. Of course now when I do something stupid (which can be more often than I would like), and dear old dad feels the need to point it out, someone inevitably offers him the explanation that it's because I got his brain! He's a good sport, though, and usually takes it with an eye-rolling and a 'you're a snotball' kind of comment.
Secretly, I'm kind of proud to be like my dad. We have had our differences in life, and we don't always like each other. Despite that, I know that my Pops loves me unconditionally, and that if I'm in a real jam he will move mountains to help me out. He is smart, funny and he has always provided for our family. He is addicted to crosswords like I am, and we have a good time finishing off a puzzle together. He's good looking (a trait that, in my humble opinion, I'm glad he passed on to me), and he's got all of his dark hair with only an occasional 'blonde' one popping out.
Plus, he's my number one blog supporter, and that means so much more to me than the Sox sweeping the Series. Love you Dad!
P.S. SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP! SWEEP!