Daddy Issues PT1: You Are NOT The Father

Daddy and my little sister, Brandy, all grown up!

When I was little I lived the first few years of my life with my grandparents, but, that's a blog of it's own. I moved in with my Mother after my Grandpa got too sick to care for me. I remember a lot of things about my childhood. The move isn't one of them. What I do remember is the first time I met my Daddy. He scared the pure shit out of me. Seriously! I was barely three years old. There's a knock at the door, so of course my curious toddler ass has to be the one to answer. There before me was this grizzly, burly, mountain man looking redneck. Now, when I say redneck, I mean his neck was actually red. Daddy was (is) a welder/bounty hunter/Marine and looked the part. Too many of my friends from school wanted to spend the night at my house just to gawk at Daddy. That's not just a little traumatic.

So, anyway, I remember the day he knocked on the door of our mobile home and sent me, screaming down the hallway, terrified out of my mind.  I also remember an argument between myself and my Mother just before Christmas that same year. Daddy was washing his baby, a Firebird, I forget what year model. Mother and I were watching from the kitchen window, fighting over the color of the car. One of us said yellow, the other said white. Neither was right. It was actually that weird cream that almost looks like someone peed in the snow then stirred it up. Mother asked "When are you gonna start calling him Daddy?" I shrugged and said "I don't know. After Christmas." No, I don't remember when I did start calling him Daddy. But, I do remember something about Mother wearing an orange jumpsuit or pantsuit the day they got married. Insert random jail jokes here.
All of these memories are why I spent years confused as to why everyone insisted that he was my biological father. Well, almost everyone. My older (step) sister really enjoyed playing the adopted card. I guess no one expected me to remember things that happened so far back. I mean, I was a toddler! But, I do remember, and that threw a major monkey wrench into their game-plan.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't so miserable with my paternal unit that I HOPED he wasn't my real Dad. He had some major parenting faults, but he was a good Dad, all things considered. I just knew he wasn't the one. I felt it. I remembered it.

Those faults, OH, those faults. Daddy came with two sisters for me. Where those sisters were concerned is where his biggest fault showed it's ugly head. See, he made a tragic but common parenting mistake. He picked a favorite. That favorite was the youngest. The baby. The NOT ME. Brandy is three years younger than I am, Shannon is three years older. Brandy, being the baby, got away with pretty much any and every thing. Oh my GAWD it was frustration to the max! Example: I was about 5 or 6 years old, Brandy was 2 or 3. In our yard was a water well. The kind that look like a propane tank stood up on it's end, with a spigot on the bottom. I caught Brandy turning it on at one point in the day and made her turn it off. Later, she did it again. Only this time, no one noticed. When Daddy got home, later that afternoon, the yard was all but flooded. So, here's how he dealt with it. He spanked me. Yup, ME. Then he asked me who did it. I said Brandy. So he goes to Brandy and asks her who did it. She said Shannon. So he spanked Shannon, then asked her who did it. She said Brandy. Again, he asks Brandy, who blamed it on me! So, guess what? I got spanked, again. And asked, again. What did I say? BRANDY. This rotation went on for a little while, Daddy spanking me and Shannon, both of us saying it was Brandy, Brandy constantly changing her blame target, and Daddy always believing her. Did you notice something here? Brandy never got spanked. Little turd! That was our childhood, summed up. Yes, we actually do get along! That's what sisters do. :D

He also had a fair amount of fear to dish out. Daddy was intimidating as hell. Every time I get nervous I start remembering any time I had to bring home a bad report card. Getting in trouble in my house was a bad, bad, bad thing. I used to hang out in the top of the tree at the end of the driveway when it came time for him to get off of work, just so that I could scope the situation from a distance. I wanted to know what kind of mood he was in before I made an appearance. Football season was the choice time for trouble making. If he was watching a game when I got my ass in the sling, He'd say "Go wait in your room. I'll be in there in a minute." So, I'd go wait, fully expecting to get the business end of a belt at any minute. I'd wait...and wait, and wait, and wait and fall asleep. He was always so wrapped up in his game that he's forget all about me! Yay for football! That did stick with me, though. To this day, if I get that feeling like I did when I was waiting for his belt, I get sleepy as all get out. Stress makes me tired.

He was a practical joker to the extreme degree. Getting into trouble was nothing compared to Daddy in mischievous mode! He had the Chinese finger traps, whoopee cushions, jalapeno bubble gum,black die bubble gum, finger trap bubble gum, fly in the middle ice cubes, pink elephant ice cubes, invisible ink, dog whistles that blow water in your face, trick handcuffs, REAL handcuffs, joy buzzers etc. etc. And, he used his jokes on a regular basis! The most memorable of Daddy's pranks was handcuffing Shannon's writs to the headboard (UNDER the bed), my wrist to Shannon's ankle, my ankle to Brandy's wrist and Brandy's ankle to the foot-board. He strung us, diagonally, under the bed, laughed like a loon and left us there. Yup, that was Daddy.

It's not like he didn't pull his fair share of bonehead moves, though. Like the go kart he got us for Christmas. We lived in a beach house with an enclosed downstairs. Daddy assembled the go kart while we were asleep Christmas eve. The next morning we followed a trail of clues that led us downstairs, to our prize. Of course we wanted to crank it up and ride it right away. There was just one problem. It was INSIDE and the doorway was too narrow to drive it out. Tip it on it's side. Easy. Nope. he had already filled it with gas. *Facepalm.* Good one, Daddy. Oh, how about the day he set a pan full of grease on fire. Did he smother it? You bet he did. In the river! He grabs the flaming pan, runs out onto the porch and slings it into the canal. Wow. Daddy didn't pull too many facepalm worthy moments, but when he did, he did it right!

There were plenty of ups and downs, growing up with an ex Marine. He had flashbacks in his sleep, which meant yelling and occasionally not breathing. Everything they taught him in the military stuck with him. He had a footlocker full of his things from Vietnam. Daddy was full of stories, some of which I wish I'd never heard. Being a Marine meant he was strict. I'm still not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Even now I think some of his habits went a little too far. But, that's ok. We survived. He taught me to weld, too. Oh, how that came in handy once I hit shop class! Now that I think of it, the things Daddy taught me are proof that he really wanted a boy. Maybe that's why I've never been a really girly girl. He even took us with him when he went to collect on bounties. Now that was an experience to remember! Especially seeing Daddy face plant in the grass after a group of kids set off a string of black cats in the middle of the street. He was in commando mode, sneaking up to the house where the guy he was supposed to arrest lived. The next thing we know it's sounding like WWIII in the street and Daddy is diving for cover. Nice!

Daddy did the best he could for me. Even though I wasn't his kid. I still have issues with some of the things that happened when I was a kid, disagreements with the way he did some things, and I always will. But even during the bad, there was good. He was my father from the time I was three years old, and he did his best to act as such. That didn't stop me from wondering, though. I had this secret mission to find my biological father for as long as i can remember. It drove my mother insane. I never let on to Daddy that I knew. I just...well, lived.

Then it happened. My mouth over-road my ass.

I was in a no holds barred argument with my Mother over something or other and it was getting ugly. Daddy is the type of person that no matter how mad he is at someone, he won't let you talk down to them. Even during their divorce, which was a down and dirty mess, he was telling me to mind my Mother, and he had nothing but good things to say to me about her. The day of that argument was no different. I came storming through the room and Daddy stopped me to fuss at me for the way I was talking to her. I was fourteen. Before I could stop myself, I blurted it out. "I know you're not my real dad!" The look on his face was painful. I regretted those words. Mother started floundering on the subject, saying that yes he was, and so on. Daddy didn't. He looked sad. He simply said "I knew this day would come." ...I wonder if he ever knew how much it meant to me that he didn't lie to me then. We sat down, later on, and he told me how he felt, and that was enough for me. He was honest about it. That matters. The subject never came up between us again. It didn't need to. We'd said what we needed to, the air was clear, the truth was out and there was no need to beat the dead horse. We just carried on, business as usual.

I haven't seen Daddy in many years, but we do talk. He raised me. How could I just drop that from my mind? Whatever happened in their marriage was between them. But, in that wreck, I lost too. I wont let their present change my past, I can't. So, Daddy is Daddy and that's that. I hope I'll get to see him again soon. I'm not banking on it, but I'm hoping. I talk to his new family (new, lol, right. They've been together for years!) and I just consider them an extension of my already dysfunctional family. Why not? Life goes on. Years go by. But the memories never fade. That was my childhood. My life. It won't go away, and I wouldn't want it to. Daddy played a big part in molding my personality. So, Daddy is Daddy.

Daddy and his wife, Chris on their wedding day, more than twenty years ago! 

End of story.