the oldest child
I can remember being about six years old and having a bar of soap jammed in my mouth in my grandparent's guest bathroom. It was a blue striped and it tasted something dreadful. I don't remember what I said which had caused such an uproar at the dinner table. All I remember was choking on the bubbles and that my teeth left impressions in the soap.
As each of my sisters came along, the punishment for various transgressions became less and less. When I was home, my next oldest sister got angry with my father and slamming the dishes in her hand on the counter told him to "Fuck off!" She's an adult now (just barely), but there's no way I still would have the guts to tell him that. Absolutely no way. I live half-way across the country and she still lives at home. And I would never say that to my father no matter how many times I've thought it.
My father's mother (my namesake) died when he was just a child. He was the oldest and she left two daughters much younger than him. Dad pretty much raised them, and I suppose that after raising his sisters, it fueled his desperate desire for a son. Unfortunately that was not to be. Instead he had four girls - each of us incredibly different. I am the oldest, and technically an only child. When I was 2, my father remarried and had my three younger sisters with his wife. D. the oldest child of that marriage - is funny, outgoing, blonde and rail thin. V. the middle - has dark brown hair, is shy and very athletic. C., the baby, her head a mass of tight curls is disciplined, reserved and at times almost sullen.
Each of us, in our way - have always strived to be the favorite. Even now, I won't drink in front of my father. I don't cuss in front of him. If I am blessed enough to have children, I will likely try to convince him that the stork brought them and dropped them off on my doorstep. I poured myself into school, hoping to win his favor by racking up degrees and accolades. When my first marriage crumbled, I never told him why - as I was too ashamed that I had made such an incredible mistake.
I'm just recently realizing that a father's love is not finite. He has enough to share with all of us, and in his way - he does. He's not outwardly affectionate. In fact he didn't tell me he loved me until I was twelve years old. He thought that his actions were enough. I have no doubt now that he did (and does) love me, but I am always hungry for outward reassurance. I need the validation.
We're not incredibly close. There were around five years of my life that he missed out on completely. But I make the same face he does when he's confused. We have the same eyes. We are cut from the same cloth - no matter how imperfect it may seem to others.
I am tired of trying to be perfect. He will just have to love me for who I am, because that's all I can do anymore.
As each of my sisters came along, the punishment for various transgressions became less and less. When I was home, my next oldest sister got angry with my father and slamming the dishes in her hand on the counter told him to "Fuck off!" She's an adult now (just barely), but there's no way I still would have the guts to tell him that. Absolutely no way. I live half-way across the country and she still lives at home. And I would never say that to my father no matter how many times I've thought it.
My father's mother (my namesake) died when he was just a child. He was the oldest and she left two daughters much younger than him. Dad pretty much raised them, and I suppose that after raising his sisters, it fueled his desperate desire for a son. Unfortunately that was not to be. Instead he had four girls - each of us incredibly different. I am the oldest, and technically an only child. When I was 2, my father remarried and had my three younger sisters with his wife. D. the oldest child of that marriage - is funny, outgoing, blonde and rail thin. V. the middle - has dark brown hair, is shy and very athletic. C., the baby, her head a mass of tight curls is disciplined, reserved and at times almost sullen.
Each of us, in our way - have always strived to be the favorite. Even now, I won't drink in front of my father. I don't cuss in front of him. If I am blessed enough to have children, I will likely try to convince him that the stork brought them and dropped them off on my doorstep. I poured myself into school, hoping to win his favor by racking up degrees and accolades. When my first marriage crumbled, I never told him why - as I was too ashamed that I had made such an incredible mistake.
I'm just recently realizing that a father's love is not finite. He has enough to share with all of us, and in his way - he does. He's not outwardly affectionate. In fact he didn't tell me he loved me until I was twelve years old. He thought that his actions were enough. I have no doubt now that he did (and does) love me, but I am always hungry for outward reassurance. I need the validation.
We're not incredibly close. There were around five years of my life that he missed out on completely. But I make the same face he does when he's confused. We have the same eyes. We are cut from the same cloth - no matter how imperfect it may seem to others.
I am tired of trying to be perfect. He will just have to love me for who I am, because that's all I can do anymore.
posted by April at 10:18 AM
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