Fathers and Daughters

Today, my husband and I went to see the new Clint Eastwood movie, "Trouble With the Curve." It's about a father and daughter, and baseball, and a lot of other stuff that's part of life. The thing that struck me, though, was this:  The dialog between the father and daughter -- the misunderstandings, the rejections, the misfired attempts at reconciliation -- hit so close to home.

By the time of my father's passing, the two of us had been good friends for years. But there were lots of occasions during my teen and early adult years when we couldn't say anything to each other without somebody being offended, or somebody's feelings being hurt, or a door being slammed (okay, it was my door being slammed).

Maybe it was that he still thought of me as "his little girl," while I thought of him as "that old guy who just doesn't understand how things are in today's world and wants to stop me from having fun." I guess we were both right, in a way. I was still a girl, immature, but I felt like a grown-up. And he was an old guy, but he was a lot more in touch with reality than I gave him credit for. He was just so stubborn! And so was I. We had a lot of things in common, and that was just one of them.

And so do my husband and "his little girl," our daughter. Only she isn't little anymore. She's an adult. They are both opinionated and sometimes unmeasured. They both say things that are a bit brash without meaning to offend or inflict pain. He says something offhand to her, and she leaves the room, feelings bruised. She makes a casual remark to him, and he turns surly and gruff.

You know, I think it's part of the separation process that has to happen so there can maturing and self-sufficiency and independence. And then, before you know it and without quite understanding what caused it, you find that place where you can meet in equality, respect, and mutual affection. Hopefully, it happens while there is still time to enjoy the wonderful relationship that develops as a result. I'm sure glad it happened for me and my dad. Perhaps that's why he lived to be 94. Maybe he was hanging around to see what kind of woman I would become. Thanks, Dad! I know it couldn't have always been easy to be my parent.