I married my father.
Not for real, because that would be illegal and more than a little icky, but I married a man just like him. One of those fellas who was just born to be a dad. A guy who wants nothing more than his kids around where he can keep watch over them. He shares a few other charming and not-so-charming quirks with my father (he goes from zero to over-reaction in 1.2 seconds, loves ice cream and anything chocolate, and whatever happens, it’s always because the other driver wasn’t paying attention), but I figure on the whole, I came out ahead in this game.
I hope and pray that one day our kids truly to realize how very lucky they were to have him. He has been the one steadfast and constant (if sometimes overbearing and annoying) force in their lives. It’s nice to see them starting to appreciate him now that they are adults.
Mostly, it’s fun to watch him morph from Daddy to Granddad. I was only eleven when my parents became grandparents for the first time. I swear they were body snatched, because they were not at all the same people with my nephews and nieces as they were with me. They were more like…my grandparents.
The circle of life has come our way. Now we’re the ones who do nothing but indulge. Discipline? Not our problem. Rules? At Granddad’s house? Not hardly. We’ve divvied the grandparenting duties between us. So far, I am in charge of cookies, hugs, and comfort, and Granddad handles playing and exploration. It works for us.
I married a guy just like my dad, and I have to say, it’s been a good thing. The pure pleasure he gets from even a few minutes with our grandson is a joy to behold.
I think I chose pretty darn well!