My Dad is My Friend

I often wonder how many people can say that. I’m lucky, I know that. I’ve known that since I was a kid, specifically regarding my open and trusting relationship with my folks. There isn’t anything I can’t say to him, there isn’t any level of vulnerability that he can’t handle. As I get older and face issues that I witnessed him face (or assumed he faced) in his late 30s, it’s reassuring to know I can pick up the phone and blurt out my question. Or cry my statement. Or yell my anger. He listens. He answers. He helps. He is my friend.

What has been changing lately is that he is sharing with me, being vulnerable with me. He is going through new experiences in his life – good experiences – and he brings them to me. The joy I feel when I pick up the phone and he blurts out his question, makes his joke, voices his concern, it is a relief. Because I can answer. I can help. I am his friend.

Dad, right around the age I am now. 1990, 1991.