Father's Day 2012

Welcome to Father's Day 2012, here at, Band Back Together. Today, we celebrate fathers-to-be, fathers whose treasures who are in heaven, fathers who don't deserve the title, fathers who have shaped who we are for good, for bad, for life.

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, Happy Father's Day, The Band.

Happy Father's Day.

There is so much I see in those three words.

So much loss. So much grief. So much anger.

And yet... no happiness.

There will be no cards in the mail; no words like: "#1 Dad!" "Best Dad In The Whole World!" or "I (heart) My Dad!" Not from me. No, my father won't be getting a word; not one single word, from me, just as he has for the last sixteen months.

My parents married three days before I was born.

That was the second mistake they made together.

The first mistake was having children. My mother would be the first to tell you that she shouldn't have had kids, but my father's too full of himself to admit the same.

My father is a con artist - for real.

He's a smooth talker. To the outside looking in, he's a great man. But, to those of us on the inside, we see through the bullshit. The smooth talking may have worked when we were five or six, but it didn't last long.

My parents divorced when I was 7 or 8, but it was hardly an abrupt end to a wonderful relationship. In fact, it was anything but.

You see, my mother had had enough of being the punching bag for an alcoholic abusive husband. He wasn't this man with his shit together like she'd once thought.

So, when she got thrown against the wall for pouring his Wild Turkey down the drain, she called her family to come get us. They did.

Our time away from him didn't last long. He had custody of us one day a week, every Sunday. I hated it; weeping when my mom dropped me off. I'd head into the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror on the back of the door, tears running down my face, and wonder why my mom had to leave me there.

It wasn't too long after the visitations began that my father began beating me.

What possibly started out as "a spanking" quickly turned into child abuse. When I didn't eat my french-style green beans one night, he beat me so hard that I was left bruised. Badly.

I begged him to stop, with each smack of the leather belt. He didn't. He yelled back, "TURN THE HELL AROUND! DAMN IT!" In the bathroom the next day, I noticed the two bruises on my right leg. One was the size of a Frisbee, the other the size of a baseball.

Seeing those bruised; well, I was scared. I was sad. My father did that to me. What kind of father does that to his daughter?

I wanted to tell the teacher, but I was afraid they would take me away from my mother, too. So I didn't. Instead, I told my mom when I got home. I think the family told him not to do that to me again, but that's all that was said.

We still had to go over there.

I still got beaten.

My brother still got beaten.

When I was 14, my mother finally allowed me to stop going over there, which I was all-to-happy to oblige. I didn't talk to him often for the next six or seven years even though he lived around the corner.

Shortly after my teenage sister gave birth, she stopped talking to my dad. They'd always been close, so I know that was hard on him. She was his baby, and now she had a baby, and she wouldn't visit him. I'm not sure why, but I felt badly for him. I guess the years away had softened me a bit.

I started taking my niece to see my father without my sister knowing. We'd go over visit maybe once a week or so, just to say hello. He would play with my niece and slip me a couple of dollars for her formula or diapers as he knew I spent a lot of money helping her. This went on for a year and a half; until I moved.

A year later, my sister and niece moved with my boyfriend and I. After we moved, my sister started opening up to our father as she was no longer under the "rule" of her drug-addicted, alcoholic boyfriend. The relationship between my father and I became strained. He'd play mind games with my sister and I - telling each other what the other had said - even if they were flat-out lies. He liked to cause rifts between people; it was his sick little game.

My sister started acting up, not taking care of my niece, so I had a conversation with my father. I told him that he needed to tell her to straighten up, but he wouldn't listen. He simply told me that if she was really that bad, I needed to call child protective services and let them handle it.

Um, okay.

Things went from bad to worse. After discussing the situation with family and friends, my boyfriend and I made the decision to file for custody of my niece. We all agreed it was the best thing for my niece.

When I filed for custody, my sister was served papers.

Thirty-six hours later, my sister kidnapped my niece and tried to leave. She was arrested a few hours later.

Twenty-four hours later, my father drove down to bail her out. For the next six months, he spent tens of thousands of dollars fighting me in court. While I was trying to do what was best for my niece. 

During this time, my sister confided in me that my father was still drinking a lot, taking her paychecks, and acting weird. But, she wouldn't admit any of it in court, because she knew she wouldn't get my niece back any time soon if the courts knew the truth. During our final court hearing, a new judge on the bench ruled my sister could have her daughter back.

As we drove to meet my father and sister on the side of the highway to drop my niece off, he called every so often to "tell that bitch to hurry up."

It KILLED me to hand my niece over knowing that man was going to be a part of raising her, despite my best efforts. They ignored the court order for a whole year, but I didn't find out until it was too late to refile.

On the way home, I vowed to never speak to that man again. I called my cell phone provider to block his phone number.

For the past sixteen months, I have been paying $5 a month to avoid having this man call me. He's as good as dead to me. He was a horrible father to his three children and he's a horrible grandfather as well.

It makes me sad to know my children won't grow up with the picturesque two sets of grandparents, but I know they will be much better off without him.

So, no, my father won't be getting a reminder of what a wonderful father he was this month, because he never was.

I can deal with having a shitty, abusive childhood. But I refuse to be any part of him ruining another generation simply because he can.

Welcome to Father's Day 2012, here at, Band Back Together. Today, we celebrate fathers-to-be, fathers whose treasures who are in heaven, fathers who don't deserve the title, fathers who have shaped who we are for good, for bad, for life.

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, Happy Father's Day, The Band.

As I peruse the many Father's Day cards available, they just strike me as "not enough." None of them can possibly fully convey the deep feelings of gratitude I have towards my father, so I decided to write my own special letter to him and am sharing it with you, The Band.

Thanks, Dad, for teaching me that fear of physical punishment is more important than understanding and accepting the rules you laid down for my brother and I. I know that kids need rules and should understand that breaking rules has consequences.

However, it just doesn't seem right that the rules seemed to be made up as we all went along and that the severity of the punishments seemed to depend on your mood at the moment. This had the bonus lesson of using the element of surprise to heighten fear at any potential transgression.

Thanks, Dad, for meeting my childhood curiosity with dismissive impatience and anger. At a young age, you were told by my teachers that I was gifted and to expect all sorts of questions as my way of figuring out the world around me.

Rather than embrace these moments as opportunities for me to learn, you decided it was troublesome and not worth your effort. Even when I'd try to engage you by asking about your job and what you do, you would snap at me to shut up and stop asking so many questions. To this day, I find it highly stressful to voice my questions and opinions outside of myself.

Thanks, Dad, for letting my brother and I know that we are lesser than those around us and will probably never be able to lift ourselves up. We were just little kids - KIDS for God's sake - doing kid things like wrestling in the back seat during long car rides and being loud when playing.

You could have simply talked to us about our behavior, maybe set some appropriate punishment when merited.

Instead, you chose to slap and hit us when it reached certain, unknown points then proceeded to tell us how ashamed you were at having the worst kids in the world.

You wished out loud that you could have been blessed by God with any of the other, better behaved kids out there and wondered why you were stuck with monsters like us. You surmised that we'd probably grow up to be embarrassing adults, too.

At 31 years old, I am constantly tracking my behavior and comparing it against those around me, always finding myself lacking or wrong in one way or another. At the end of the day, I go over my many "mistakes" in my head and berate myself for not being more "normal." 

Thanks, Dad, for constantly questioning why I couldn't do any better in school whenever report cards came home. I was a straight A student in elementary and junior high school. My teachers all praised me as a joy to teach.

However, you would look at the grades and ask why I "only" got a 92 in math. I would promise to work harder and go to sleep worried over my inability to be good enough. The next time, my grades would be higher, but you would deflate my pride immediately by asking why I couldn't raise them even higher.

Perfection was the only worthy goal, and attaining anything less was a failure. Despite years of therapy, I still look at myself as an overall failure in life. 

Thanks, Dad, for never complimenting me to my face but being so quick to brag about me to family members and friends. After hearing nothing but disapproval and criticism from you, I'd hear from others that you were "so proud of my accomplishments and intelligence."

You've made me wary and mistrustful of compliments from people. At best, I can be anxiously uncomfortable when, for example, I received an award for being employee of the year at my previous job. 

Thanks, Dad, for never approving of my extracurricular activities regardless of the joy and accomplishment they gave me. In junior high, I joined the band and discovered I was quite good.

Also, despite never having played on any teams, I managed to make the school basketball team! Instead of celebrating, you worried that music and sports would detract from my academics. You treated my after-school and weekend games/practices as a nuisance.

In high school, I was in the marching band; held in high regard by my peers and staff. You acted like it was such a chore to pick me up after games. By this time, however, I'd grown thicker skin; had learned to look to my friends, their parents, and my teachers for the love and support so lacking from home.

Thanks, Dad, for all of the times that physical intimidation and violence were a part of our adolescent life.

Like the time I was too sick to go to church because we'd marched in the rain the night before. I was already run down from midterms, so it wasn't a surprise. You yanked me out of bed so hard I got a bruise both on my arm where you grabbed me and on the shoulder that hit the floor.

Then there was the time you threatened my Little Brother with a baseball bat for talking back to you, and I had to stand between y'all to stop the fight.

Let's face it - at that age Little Brother would have destroyed you, Dad. That's why you grabbed the bat first. Big man. 

Thanks, Dad, for teaching me that I didn't need you in my life after years of wishing I could be good enough to earn your love and praise. 

But...

I DID need you, Dad. I needed you as a little girl, as a teenager, and as a young adult. I am bitterly angry that I have nothing but feelings of resentment from my childhood; that I have to pretend we're a normal family because that's how you think things are. I hate that I have so many lessons to unlearn; I hate it even more that I never fully will. 

Thanks, Dad, for making it impossible to find the right Father's Day card.

Welcome to Father's Day 2012 at Band Back Together.

Today we celebrate fathers-to-be, fathers whose treasures who are in heaven, fathers who don't deserve the title, fathers who have shaped who we are for good, for bad, for life.

Happy Father's Day, The Band.

Growing up, I thought my family was anything but traditional. As I learned more and more about my home in Southwest Missouri, I learned that many families were like just like mine: headed up by a single mother.

My mom isn't without shortcomings, but she taught me what it really is to be a parent, about sacrifice and appreciation for the little things, largely because that's all we ever had. The little things.

I always wanted that traditional, nuclear family. My mother, and a father too. I eventually got a stepfather who, after many years of not getting along and fighting, I've come to accept as my father. My grandfather was a great role model, but he wasn't there like a father should be. My stepfather was. I'll always be grateful to him for that.

My biological father left before I was born. I suppose that's a good thing. My mom says he was abusive and, quite frankly, crazy.

Apparently he thinks he can kill people with his mind. Yeah, you read that right. Still, I wanted him to be my father even though it should have been clear that he never wanted me.

I didn’t meet my biological father until I was almost 18. I found his address and showed up on his doorstep determined to learn what I'd always wanted to know: where I came from. His then-wife opened the door and immediately knew who I was even though we'd never met. I thought that was particularly strange.

Since then, we’ve spent time together maybe twice, and he sends me the occasional Facebook well-wishing during holidays or on my birthday. Other than that, we don’t speak. He sent me one of those Facebook messages in November.

I expected the message to be one either wishing me happy holidays or a congratulations on my marriage just a few weeks before. Instead, I got something along these lines:

“My mom has cancer, and now I regret never being there for you. Forgive me so we can have a normal father-son relationship.”

I felt for him. Although my mom is still alive and in great health, I can only imagine how I’d feel if she was staring at such a diagnosis. At the same time, all that I could think was that he wants me around when he needs me, but he wasn't there when I needed him.

Is that selfish?

I really don’t know if it is. I feel like he gave me nothing, and I owe him nothing , especially not compassion. To this day, I’m not sure he and I will ever be able to have the sort of relationship he suddenly wants. I’ve wanted it in the past, but that’s in the past, dead and forgotten.

In recent years, I’ve learned that I don’t need his approval to achieve success in life. He wants forgiveness and for us to be some sort of fixed-up-but-still-fractured family, but that can’t happen, at least not entirely.

I forgive him for what he did to me. I’ve been over that for a long time. People make mistakes, and I can’t let the baggage from his mistakes weigh me down.

What I can’t forgive him for is what he’s done to the rest of the people around me. I can’t forgive him for my nephews, because I sometimes don’t know how a grown man is supposed to play with young boys.

I can’t forgive him for my mom, because she had to do the best she could for me and my sister on her own, something no woman should have to do but makes them the strongest women in the world.

I can’t forgive him for my wife, because I’m terrified to have my daughter.

She will be my first child, and she is due in September. Then again, considering she's my daughter, she probably won't come out until November or December. I'm late for everything, I figure she will be too.

My wife hates that joke.

My daughter's name will be Quinn Marie. Quinn, Gaelic, means wise. Marie is my mother's middle name. If my daughter is anything like her namesake, she will be the wisest and strongest woman I know. That's what I want her to be. A warrior with the strength of ten men, someone who can overcome anything and become the greatest the world has ever seen at anything she wishes.

I don’t know if I can be there for her as a father because mine was never there for me. I don’t know what it is to get a hug from your dad, and I’m scared I won’t know how to hug my own little girl.

I forgave my dad for what he did to me, and as I learn what it means to be a father in the coming months, I'll likely forgive him for what he's done to my relationship with my daughter.

My wife tells me she knows I'll be a great father. I love kids, and I know it's in me to be everything a dad should be. I'm just scared. I'm hoping that my wife is right and, over time, my dad leaving me will be the best thing he ever did for me. I'm hoping that all the time I spent wishing for a dad and dreaming of how I want my dad to be will prove to be a guiding force in my time as a father.

He's given me nothing else. Maybe that will be his only lesson.

My first Father's Day is this year, and I'll be having a beer for myself, one for my mom, and strangely enough, one for my dad. In the words of Slug from Atmosphere, "Leaving me was probably the best thing you ever taught me."

Thanks for the lesson, Pops.

I got the lesson, even though I had to get it the hard way. I'm gonna do it without you. And I'm gonna do it better than you ever thought you could have.

Welcome to Father's Day 2012, here at, Band Back Together. Today, we celebrate fathers-to-be, fathers whose treasures who are in heaven, fathers who don't deserve the title, fathers who have shaped who we are for good, for bad, for life.

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, Happy Father's Day, The Band.

I was my father's first child.

And I was daddy's little girl, at least until my adolescence. I know I was a difficult teen, but I can't quite forgive my dad for his part in the disaster that was our relationship.

My dad was both physically and emotionally abusive. 

Our relationship was very volatile, and I held a lot of anger towards him for what he did.

I moved out as soon as I could and barely spoke to my father for the next 6 or 7 years.

When I moved out, my younger sisters were still in lower elementary school. I am glad to say that my father put a lot of effort into changing his behavior. 

I am thrilled that my younger sisters have never had to experience being dragged up a flight of stairs or shoved up against a wall.

I am relieved that they have never had to hear the words, "You are just no damn good," echo through their head whenever they fail at something. 

I'm glad that they are allowed to have friends and go places.

I am glad that his anxiety and distrust haven't kept them socially isolated.

And I know that my father does care about me and about my family.

I know that he is a much better grandfather to my children than he was a father to me.

But I still feel bitter.

I am still resentful.

I still wonder why I had to go through that.

I still wonder why I wasn't good enough.

Why wasn't he willing to put in the effort to change for me?

I'm angry that I still have to deal with the after effects.

And I still haven't quite forgiven him.

Welcome to Father's Day 2012 at Band Back Together  Today we celebrate fathers-to-be, fathers who are treasures, who are in heaven, fathers who don't deserve the title, fathers who have shaped who we are for good, for bad, for life.

Happy Father's Day, The Band.

"Carri, why don't you want kids?"

I don't remember where we were headed when he asked me that question.

It was a question I'd heard so many times before. A question I loathed. A question that immediately put me in defense mode and caused me to throw up the walls I'd been trying so hard to break down.

But it sounded different coming from him.

"Carri, why don't you want kids?" He nervously looked at me from the passenger seat.

"I just don't," I said flatly.

"I don't understand why not," he proceeded with caution, knowing full-well this topic was a trigger. "I had so much fun with you kids. I don't understand why you don't want to experience the joy I did."

The answer I became accustomed to giving other people just wouldn't fly with him. He knew better, and so did I.

I kept my eyes on the road.

"Because. I just... I don't know how to be a mom."

There. The truth was out.

"Nobody needs to teach you how to be a mom. If nothing else, you know how not to be."

"I don't want to make the same mistakes. I don't want to treat someone the way we were treated."

"Carri," he said. "You're not her. You're kind. You're loyal. People like you."

I said nothing.

"Carri, you're not her." My eyes were on the road but I could sense his body turning towards me. "You're not going to make the same mistakes because you're not like her."

"Well, I mean, I know I'm not like her, but nobody taught me how to be a mom. I don't know what a good mom is supposed to be. I didn't have a good example."

The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

A heavy sigh came from his direction. "You may not have been taught how to be a good mom, but you've been taught how to be a good parent."

Those words - my "Good Will Hunting" moment- began the long and painful process of realizing just that.

Although my mom never taught me how to be a good mother, my dad taught me how to be a good parent.

And that is the reason he's a Grandpa today.