You have may have heard of the idea of "work spouses", the concept that there are individuals that we work with that essentially become the working equivalent of our spouse due to the time we spend with them on a weekly basis and the degree of closeness that one acquires in working with a particular set of people over the years. I have, somewhat in the same fashion, apparently acquired "work children".
The request came about innocently enough, a younger coworker (arguably 90% of my worksite is younger than I am) with whom I spent a lot of time in work and discussion asked me out of the blued "Would you be my work dad?"
Well, sure, I said after I thought about it for a bit. My one condition was that they are financially independent; I pay for nothing. But if they just wanted someone to lend an ear or fill in occasional words that maybe had some wisdom in them from time, I was up for the job.
I started with one "adopted" daughter. I now have three.
---
Last month, one of my new "children" popped an invite on my calendar entitled "Lunch with Dad". It was not a big deal - lunch at a chain close to our place of work - but I have confess it tickled me to no end. After all, Na Clann are thousands of miles away (literally) and I see them now twice or thrice a year. A "Dad date", even with bright young women not your own genetically who - for reasons unknown to me - are willing to call you "Dad" even jokingly warms my heart.
This month, looking at the calendar, I picked a Friday for another "Lunch with Dad" date. And then I looked at the date. It was the day after my father's birthday.
---
TB The Elder, for those that may be of newer vintage here, was my father (thus, I am TB - although arguably, not TB The Younger). I do not suppose I have a better introduction to him than the eulogy for his funeral (at least, at the macro level).
He and I had what is likely a more common father/son experience than I had believed when I was much younger. I used to think we were not alike at all growing up; I think we were more alike in spirit than I realized although in manifested in what we did. We "graduated" from that experience sometime in my mid to late twenties (more due to my inability to grow up than a failure on his part), and sometime in my mid to late thirties reached a far better relationship - although we never really shared the same interests, we could at least communicate about them in a way that showed interest and got the message across. Over time, he came to realize that he himself struggled with depression (which I have for most of my life, which was an insight into perhaps where mine came from) and even anger issues, which he apologized for.
Over the last few years, I have realized that I am like him far more than I have thought: a self-thought and personality tested introvert, I have learned to be as social as he ever was. I can make "smart" comments in the same way to generate laughs. We cared and care about different aspects of Nature. We were and are really both homebodies. Sometimes, we struggle with our religion (as my father said for many years, he was not sure that he believed but he went to church because my mother did). And I always, always have the example of him acting as the primary caregiver of my mother for 7 years as her Alzheimer's grew worse - until finally, after she was safely in a memory facility, his own body and mind gave out as well.
If there is interest, most of my interactions of that time are located here.
It was shocking to me to look are realize that this July will have been four years since his passing - honestly, I would have pegged it at only two. How time gets away from us.
---
Here at The Forty-Five, we celebrate a series of holidays which are in some cases the equivalent of local regional holidays, the sorts of things that a town or region might do. One of these is, of course Failure Day (02 August), a day to celebrate failures. Added to the pantheon will now be 11 March (my father's birthday), hereafter known as TB The Elder Day.
---
My adopted "daughters" asked me why I had chosen the Friday (tomorrow) for lunch. I simply said that was the day after my father's birthday, and it seemed a good enough reason to celebrate. And I sent them his obituary.
One of them responded back: "Wow. Good men raising good men".
I do not know that I am good man. But I have seen at least one.
I suppose one disadvantage of leaving work at a relatively young age is that I never became a father figure, at least formerly, to any of my younger coworkers. I was more of an older peer than a father figure.
ReplyDeleteTime does have a way of slipping away. I was just thinking a few days back that it has been eight years since I last heard my mom's voice and I can still quite easily conjure it up in my mind.