Fathers

Yesterday, my friend Jess Haralson wrote on her blog:

I was on the phone talking to my slacker, calls-in-a-blue-moon, recovering-drug-addict-dad. He remembered my birthday (which isn’t today, but soon).

I walked into Bucks County Coffee continuing our conversation. As the cashier rang up a Diet Coke, I said (with genuine feeling):

“Thank you for remembering my birthday, Dad.”

The cashier BUSTED OUT LAUGHING.

“What’s so funny?”

“You have to thank your Dad for remembering your birthday?”

I had no idea it was considered abnormal for a parent not to remember your birthday. I mean, my Dad… he loves me, God help him, but he’s not exactly the most attentive or mature parent.

Am I going crazy? Wow, perspective can fuck with your head sometimes. I guess I’d never thank my Mom just for remembering my birthday, but I would thank her if she got me a present. Hmmm.

I can relate. I can more than relate. I didn’t even realize that my own father had forgotten about my birthday until I read this. And I don’t know which is more hilariously tragic: the fact that he forgot or that I forgot he forgot.

It isn’t as if my insanely well-attended, well-lubricated party on Saturday erased the realization that Monday was my actual 20th birthday and I should be expecting some form of communication from those not in attendance. All day, I fielded text messages, calls, and emails from California and waited for a phone call from my family … by which I mean my mother. She didn’t call until 10pm EST when I was already out in Union Square. On her coast, it was only 7pm, so I suppose it was still a reasonable hour to ring in. But even if it slipped her mind, I would’ve forgiven her. She was on a trip to San Francisco then; and besides, she had already wished me a happy birthday two days before.

My father, on the other hand, didn’t even cross my mind. He and I don’t speak regularly — maybe monthly at best, and that’s during financial aid season. But we manage to see each other at least annually and I always call him on Father’s Day, which is the last time we spoke this year. It’s almost an excuse — almost. Because really, if not for a holiday, what other reason do I have for calling? I know next to nothing about what his life is like, other than the day-to-day going-ons of his job. I don’t know where in the city he lives. I don’t know if he’s happy. I don’t worry, though. I don’t worry at all. I think he is, if nothing else, fine.

And that must be what he thinks of my life as well. That I am, without him, fine and that his absence makes no difference. To some extent, this is true. I miss my mother, dearly. I don’t miss my father. I can’t remember the last time I did, or if I ever did. I don’t yearn for him though I do yearn for my mother, nor do I intensely miss San Francisco (his current residence) though it is my birthplace. What does this mean, then? That home is a concept I associate with Los Angeles and the woman I still call “mommy”? That there is little significance to the person or the place around which the first decade of my existence revolved around?

Something else disappointing. My father was in good — well, plentiful — company on Monday. There were only two guys who called if you discount my close friends. One was someone I went on a date with a week ago. The other was CeCe’s new boyfriend, someone I met at Dartmouth in June. The latter particularly really amused me. None of my ex-boyfriends bothered to remember even though my best friend’s boyfriend did (and gave me flowers at my party to boot). Even Summer Guy, who has a remarkable knack for drunk dialing me at least twice monthly, missed Monday, though he called the next day. But besides him, no one. I marvel at the men in my life and their ironic penchant for letting me down without fail. But I guess it is something I’ve gotten used to.