Imagining a parent as a child is hard to do. My parents were pretty young when I was born–22 for my mom; 27 for my dad. But they always seemed old to me. I was recently watching with my kids a video from 1974 and it’s shocking that my parents were actually, truly young. In 1974, my father was seven years younger than I am now. When I was the age he was in 1974, I was a newlywed, no kids. He had two kids, a mortgage, college savings accounts, and an ugly car (really–I don’t know what that car was in the video, but it was ugly! For some reason “Cougar” comes to mind. Was that the car?). I knew him when he was 34. I remember when I was a teen, he once said to me, “You know, I may be in my forties, but I still feel like I’m sixteen.” I didn’t get it then, but I get it now.
Lately, though, I feel like I’ve had a sense of my father as a kid. Because I look at Doodles and I can suddenly picture my father. In his insolence, in his single-mindedness, in his stubbornness, in his antsy energy, I can see my father, and it’s eerie.
My dad turns seventy today. We all know that I don’t get mushy on this blog–it’s just not my thing–but if I were ever going to get mushy, it would be here. ‘Cause, you know. He’s my dad. And I love him.
Happy birthday, Peter!
