Submissions Tagged 'father'

I exist because of the Vietnam War.

My father, Patrick, was an infantryman, sent across the sea in 1967. One of 11 children from a poor Irish slum in Philadelphia, he was young, scrubbed, and ready for a fight. His enthusiasm lasted all of a day, when upon arrival he saw children with guns, guns pointed at him. So he used his humor to survive. And in so doing, he met a very funny man named David. They became buddies. Best friends.

David got a lot of mail from his family; Patrick got nothing. In one of his Read more

Tonight I was lying on the floor of my boys’ bedroom floor with my arms thrown behind my head and my legs strewn carelessly on some piece of furniture where they don’t belong, listening to my husband being a parent. I’ve done this on countless occasions over the past six-plus years, but this time, my jaws clenched in rage and my eyes welled up with tears.

He was perched on a beanbag next to their bunk bed, leaning on our four-year-old’s lower bunk. I couldn’t see our first grader from my station on the floor, so it was hard Read more

I was taking a bubble bath when my dad told me about sex. Without any sort of warning he hunkered right down on the toilet across from the tub and began hurling words like "vagina" and stimulation" my way as my bubble cover quickly evaporated, leaving me naked and pruny in tepid water. The awkwardness of this sex talk pretty much set the stage for our relationship on that subject. Like most every other teenager since the dawn of time, I did not talk sex with my dad much. Not that he didn't want to. Read more

D is for Dad

Growing up, I was always “daddy’s little girl”, and I thought my dad could walk on water. I honestly thought he was the best thing since sliced bread.

Looking back now, I realise that this was probably because my mum always had to be the task-master and the disciplinarian. In comparison, my father was away on business a lot and when he was around, he never asked me to clean my room, or punished me for punching my brother for no good reason… so he probably seemed like peaches and cream to Read more

I.
In my recurring daydream, he would arrive during a humdrum afternoon at the office. I’d be in my cube, tapping away on my keyboard, the inkjet printer sputtering softly beside me, the angry shrieks of midday traffic rising up from San Francisco’s Mission Street, a siren wailing in the distance–when suddenly a disturbance erupts from the reception area. In bursts my father, toting a large semi-automatic rifle and demanding his one and only hostage. I rise from my seat and walk calmly towards it him. “You don’t want to do this. There are better ways,” I tell him, my Read more

 
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