Father’s Day

June 15, 2014

I have blogged before about my father. I was very close to him as a child. Closer than to my mother as he had an air of mystery about him perhaps. Working away from the home for much of the time when I was very small, and returning often gift- laden on a Friday night. Maybe a comic – I was a big Bimbo fan, or the best present ever was a diamanté hair clip. I remember being in my parents double bed when he came back and gave it to me. I think I had measles hence the special treats of being in parents bed and a sparkly present. I worshipped him.
He very very rarely did the admonishing. Discipline and manners were left to my mother so he could always play the fool and just be fun. But once when I was about three or four I refused to go up to bed. I don’t know why. I think perhaps my parents were having one of their parties and I wanted to be part of it. But in truth I don’t know. Anyway, I refused. So mum asked dad to take me upstairs,which he did. And for some unbeknownst reason my memory is of being taken to the spare bedroom, next door to where Kate and I had our bunk beds. Perhaps they were decorating our room, putting on the polystyrene tiles we would later push our nails in to with such satisfaction. I don’t know.
But he took me up and told me to get undressed and I refused. He told me again. I still refused. And so he had to undress me. I remember making myself as rigid as possible and trying to keep my arms by my sides so he couldn’t get my jumper off. But of course he overcame my attempts and pulled my clothes off and put my nightie on. I started sobbing loudly. But I never gave in. All the time being as rigid as possible. And then hauled to the bathroom and made to clean my teeth. Except I wouldn’t so he did it for me as I continued crying.
And then carried back to the bedroom as I refused to walk. “Get in to bed now Sarah,”he told me. And I said no. I don’t know why on earth I was being so truculent, but I wasn’t giving in. “Get in to bed. Now.” He ordered. And I stood there. Trying to be defiant but with tears streaming down my face I conceded defeat and got in to bed. “Nos da cariad bach,” he said, as he always did. And left the room.
I would probably not even remember the event were it not for the fact my mum told me about it when I was grown up. Apparently dad came downstairs in tears after all this and mum asked him what on earth was the matter so he relayed the events to her. He wasn’t concerned that he might have hurt me with all the pulling and shoving he’d had to do to get me undressed. He feared the lesson he had taught me was that force will always win so there is no point fighting. He was terrified he had “broken my spirit.”
I think we can safely say he didn’t.
Happy Father’s Day Dad. Wish you were still here to celebrate it.



3 Responses to “Father’s Day”

  1. Georgie Says:

    This is lovely. And he definitely didn’t break your spirit that’s for sure!

  2. tssr14 Says:

    Poignant and beautiful

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