"I could never find a correlation between a parents' [material] generosity and the child's feeling about them," noted Miss Manners' mother.  Then I began to notice a connection between the child's feelings and the parents' facial expressions when they came to pick them up from school, or even when they just talked about them.  The parent who beamed at the child had a loving child, the one who didn't, didn't.  After that it didn't seem to matter what else the parent did or didn't do.

Something from Miss Manners' Guide to Rearing Perfect Children that's always stayed with me.  Just looked it up because I didn't want to bungle the quote above.

Simplistic - but there is something to it, IMO.  My parents were far from perfect but they've been gone for over 20 years now and while sure, I can recount their mistakes (and there were some big ones) by far the over arching theme of my relationship with them is that I was loved.

I feel kind of guilty for typing this as I loved my mom very much and knew she loved me...she loved everyone.  She thought I was great...but she thought everyone was great.  

But my dad?  The sun didn't rise until I got up in the morning...he adored me.  And he could never be accused of liking most people.   And in the grande scheme of things that cancels out all the mistakes.  No one else has ever made me feel as loved and protected as my father did and so when life poops the bed and I'm scared and insecure his memory is where my brain runs for comfort.  

He wasn't a talker and god knows you didn't go to him with any emotional issues unless you wanted to see him panic because...funny.  Financial security he nailed...but the other kind which gave me enough self-esteem to be able to try stuff and fail, to always assume I'll end up okay no matter how bad life is...I didn't even know he gave me that until after he was gone.  

That's the gift.  I loved them equally - in very different ways (you'd be hard pressed to find people more different than my parents in almost every way) - but I needed him more.  I have a couple of areas where I take after my mom, but he gave me what I needed to survive.  Even though it would kill him to know how hard my life has been at times as he never wanted me to be unhappy...his ridiculous, unwavering belief in my abilities - which is astounding in the face of my absolutely abject stupidity and recklessness through most of my life to that point - that's the foundation.  

No matter how much doubt, insecurity, guilt, self-loathing I'd pile up (and considerable, at times) underneath it all the foundation always held.  I've had some really tough patches (as everyone) but as obsessive and panicked as I may have been I always knew the bad stuff was temporary.  Just ride out the storm and it'll be okay.  Always.  

As neurotic as I am I can't imagine who I'd be if I didn't have that.

But what's so interesting to me is I'm positive he never intended any of that.  My couldn't roll his eyes hard enough if someone mentioned psychology.  I don't think we ever had a conversation about emotions or innermost thoughts.  Unless you count my dramatics and him telling me to go talk to my mother.

I don't recall him ever telling me he loved me.  At my first wedding my mom poked him in the back and said, "tell her you love her!" as we waited to talk down the aisle.  He got annoyed and very uncomfortable saying " she knows."  My mom, who was always looking for a Walton's happy ending (I don't know WHAT family she thought she was in), kept at it until we both told her he does, I know, he knows I know ...we're good.

My dad was in his mid-40s when I was born.  He was a WWII vet - a Marine.  I doubt he ever spent one moment wondering how he could best instill self esteem into us.  He worried a lot about providing for us, teaching us right from wrong, making sure we were educated, making sure we had a safety net..but self esteem wouldn't have occurred to him as part of the plan.  

He was far more Archie Bunker (although the executive version) than Mike Brady.  

He never told me what he thought of me, in a positive sense.  He wasn't a complimentary guy.  I don't ever recall him saying I was beautiful, or smart, or that he was proud of me.   Criticism, that he was generous with.  We could always be better.  If you're not perfect you should be striving to get there.  There is a right way and a wrong way to do everything.  (Spoiler alert - his way was the right way.  Always.) I don't recall him ever apologizing for anything.  But you knew he was sorry because his voice would soften and he'd take you out to buy something fun or ice cream.

You'd think as touchy as I am the criticism would have crippled me, but it was like I already knew he thought we were better than everyone else, and none of us were ever going to meet ridiculous expectations so I was cool with clearing the everyone else bar and being a ridiculous failure in the non-perfect portion of the event.  I rarely took it too seriously - because I knew what I did or how I dressed or acted had nothing to do with how he felt about me.  He loved me - locked and loaded...let's watch tv.

I don't recommend this parenting style - on a different kind of kid the results could be disastrous...but somehow without knowing it...in giving me what he thought I needed he gave me things he didn't even know I would need much more.  

Back to the quote - at his funeral wow did we finally hear what he thought of us.  His friends and former co-workers knowing the specifics of how awesome we each were, how proud he was of us.  Some of my siblings were surprised, but for me it was like - told you guys.  

He may not have been a beamer in the grinning sense - but you could see in his face he was always happy to see us.  You could see it when he picked up the phone and it was brother on the other end, or one of my sisters.

When I'm sick I still miss my mom.  After I had surgery a couple of years back the nurses said I was asking for her as I was coming out of anesthetic....and I even called one nurse mom and started to cry when she turned around and it wasn't her.  I remember none of this.  And holidays.  

But I feel guilty I don't miss her as often as I miss my dad.  He comes to mind when I need someone here to kick someone's ass for being mean to me, when frustrated by idiots and I need someone to hate them with me, when I have a problem I don't want to solve...when I'm feeling too much like a grown up and need someone to worry about me for a change.  

So, you know, hourly.