I’ve come to this realisation: one day I will become my father. It’s not just my destiny, it’s a fact.
And I’m not simply talking how my already dubious looks are turning to shit: like I have my father’s chins now, and all that loose skin of his is beckoning. I’m chiefly referring to how I’m destined – some would say doomed – to interact with the world.
I see it more and more in my dealings with family and friends – I’m becoming him.
Not that I mind too much. He’s a bit cute, in his own odd sort of way. And by that I mean he’s usually somewhere between dithering and drop jaw stupid.
But as this is going to be my own fate to follow in his increasingly unsure footsteps I’m treating his acts of awkwardness with a lot less frustration these days in the hope other – specifically younger – members of this family will see my reactions and show me the same courtesy when I’m over seventy.
Today, by way of example, we took Tracey’s Grandma and my parents to a beautiful local watering hole (Zesty Edibles) for a brunch and catch up. To make it less relaxing, Miss4 was with us and she spent most of her time chasing some poor cat around the grounds demanding hugs.
Our youngest child’s hugs are brutal. We have a cat at home I’m pretty sure has brain damage as a direct result of Miss4’s affections.
So it was no great surprise the cat occasionally sought sanctuary under our seats.
Although my father thought the reason was something different.
“What are you doing?” I asked him midway through our morning.
“Feeding the cat,” he said to me, dropping another morsel off the table and pointing to the brown lump on the floor beside him.
“Well, I think it’s had enough,” I whispered, because I’m a saint amongst sons.
Because it wasn’t a cat.
A point which everyone at the table, including my dad, understood half an hour later when we stood to leave.
“Why is there food in my bag?” Tracey wanted to know.
I just hope my kids are as sympathetic when I start feeding handbags.
Raising a family on little more than laughs
