They say that after a parent dies, the surviving children can take on some of their parent’s characteristics. I resisted for years becoming anything like my dad because, well, because I wanted to be me, not him; but there I sat at his memorial service several months ago, telling myself, “You’ve got a lot more of your dad in you than you think.”
There’s this phrase my dad used, and I know I’m going to sound rude to complain about it, but it did used to bother me. “I’m so proud of you,” he told us kids, whether we’d won a sailing race (like my older brother has frequently) or run a marathon (like my younger sister) or managed to get a book published (like me). “I’m so proud of you.” That should be a good thing, but here’s what always went through my unforgiving mind: “You’re taking credit for what isn’t really yours. You can be proud, but the achievement is mine.”
I knew the feeling of parental pride well, especially when my boys achieved in ways that were beyond my comprehension and ability, as children do, but I looked for other ways to express it. “That’s an incredible story you’ve written,” I would say about the composition.
I thought that by making my praise specific, it would feel like I was claiming their achievement less as mine and more as one they could own themselves. So just the other day when my older son, now a manager, sent me an email about the thank-you dinner his latest client threw him, I thought hard for clever things to say, finally realizing your kids don’t really need your cleverness. They just want what my dad gave me. “I’m so proud of you,” I wrote. Just like the old man.
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