Mackenzie Bernard

MacKenzie Bernard

Mr. Jennings

2nd Hour Honors English 3

December 3, 2012

Sometimes I tell people my dad is John Stamos. My dad is not John Stamos, but it’s funny how many people will ask me “Wait, you’re kidding right?” before they tell me what a weirdo I am. I’m not exactly sure when I started doing this or what purpose it really serves or even why out of all the people in the world that I could frame as my father I’ve picked John

Stamos. I don’t think I’ve even watched an entire episode of Full House. I guess most of the time I find myself wishing my dad was just someone else in general. And if I’m switching dads I might as well pick a dad that’s as rich and good looking as John Stamos. But, in reality, my father is, in my mother’s words, “A skinny little a-----e.” To me, my father is the guy pushing 60 that’s almost always adorned in inside out clothes and an absurdly raggedy baseball cap. He’s the guy who can’t go to a restaurant without taking home 50 napkins. He’s the guy who locked himself in the basement and lied under the Ping-Pong table waiting to die from the heart attack he was convinced he was having due to my mom allowing 15 members of our family in the house on Christmas Eve. He’s the guy who wouldn’t let me pour milk until I got to high school.

Most of the time, I think “Skinny little a------e” is an accurate description.

My mom always tells people “I hated him from the minute I met him and nothing’s changed.” My parents met at a bar in the early ‘80s. My mom had left her barstool to dance with someone else and when she came back my dad had taken her place. The first words she said to him were “That’s my stool, get off.” Instead of just giving the stool back and going away, my dad spent the rest of the night pestering my mother. My mom told me “He had this big, goofy smile on his face and he wouldn’t stop talking to me. He didn’t buy me a drink and he asked for my number. I told him to look it up and he said “You didn’t tell me your name.” I said

“That’s your problem.”” Eventually, my father found my mothers’ number and even though she tried avoiding his calls, she agreed to go out with him because she was breaking up with her boyfriend and needed collateral.

They didn’t magically fall in love once they started seeing each other. On my parents’ first date my dad spilled his beer in my mom’s lap, followed her to the bathroom, and spit out his gum and gave it to her to get rid of. On their second date, he got incredibly drunk and tickled my mother while repeating “My hands are so strong. Touch my hands. Look how strong my hands are” until she ultimately bit him. This incoherency went on for four or five more years before my father finally realized he and my mother didn’t get along at all and ended the relationship. My mom was totally okay with that. But a few months later, my dad called my mom and said “Look, we might as well get married. We’re never gonna find anyone else.”

Despite the fact that my parents had both started seeing other people, they still didn’t get along, and most importantly, my mom really hated my dad. My mom decided that since she was now 29, she did not want to be 30 and unmarried. My father formally proposed outside of the St. Louis Art Museum; my mother said yes.

My mom’s family disapproved. When my mother’s three siblings first met my dad, they didn’t have a problem with him. It wasn’t until their own parents divorced that they started to think he was kind of crazy. My mother had a genuinely happy family that my dad loved being around because his family was the complete opposite. But when her parents divorced, he blamed my grandma and gave up on any idea that a family could be truthfully happy. He didn’t trust women anymore and that included my mother. My mom’s sister warned her that she didn’t think the engagement was a good idea, but my mom told her she believed God wanted her to marry my dad because no one else would. Before the wedding, my mother sat in the basement of the church and thought “I’m going to be miserable for the rest of my life. Ah, well.”” As my grandpa walked my mother down the aisle, he whispered in her ear “There’s still time to run, you know.” My mom replied “I’m thinking about it.” At the reception, my father complained that the food was too cheap; their first fight as a married couple.

The marriage was just as unhappy as everyone predicted. My mother remembers fighting over matters such as when my grandma had a broken foot and asked my father to help her move some garden stones to her new house. My dad took the stones he wanted for himself and left my little, old, broken footed grandma to handle the rest by herself. Eight years into the marriage, my mother seriously considered shaking my father off a ladder into a cluster of electrical wires, assuming that would be enough to kill him. A friend of hers later told her it was good she didn’t go through it with because the wires would have only maimed him. What she also didn’t know was that she was two weeks pregnant with me. And I’m glad I wasn’t born in a prison.

Growing up, I quickly noticed that my dad was a piece of work. I can still remember when I was four and my mother decided to invite her entire family over for Christmas. My dad didn’t appreciate that idea one bit. But my mom was determined and the house soon filled with the members of our family. At first, my father tried to keep calm by layering all the furniture with sheets to prevent any stains and by standing outside the door while people used the bathroom. But then he couldn’t take it anymore. He was positive he was having a heart attack.

Not wanting any attention, he locked himself in the basement, lied down under the Ping-Pong table located on the cold, dusty laundry room floor, and waited to die. Meanwhile, my mother and her family were just glad he was out of the way. Somehow my dad survived the night. In the weeks that followed, my father claimed to see a cardiologist. The supposed cardiologist wanted to have my mother arrested for trying to murder my father (by overstressing him with a party), but my father stopped him. To this day, my mother doesn’t know if the cardiologist actually existed.

As I got older, I noticed the eccentricity more and more. I noticed when my dad walked six miles home after my grandma’s funeral so that he wouldn’t have to waste time at the wake.

I noticed that none of my friends had cabinets stuffed with stolen restaurant napkins. I noticed that holding a grudge against a kid who didn’t pay back the nickel you loaned him in 1960 just isn’t normal. When I was 15, I noticed my parents screaming at each other over my mother knocking a bottle of water onto the kitchen table. It happened to be their 23rd anniversary. I watched my parents yelling, cussing, slamming doors; all the usual. Seeing as it was their anniversary, they decided to go out to dinner despite the fact that my dad was incredibly angry at my mom for being a “f-----g klutz.” My father angrily climbed into the driver’s seat of his car while my mother climbed in the backseat with me, the way she always does whenever she’s mad at him. I guess most parents don’t take their kids on their anniversary dinners, but I guess most parents aren’t my parents. “Where do you want to go?” my dad barked from the front seat. “I don’t care” replied my mom.

“Just tell me where to go” said my father, his tone not improving.

“Fine, take us to Red Lobster” my mother dubiously answered.

“No f-----g way. In your f-----g dreams” my father hollered back.

I laughed harder than I probably should have. I guess some kids might be sad that this is how their parents celebrate their anniversary, but I thought it was hilarious. My mom joined me. We laughed over their marriage in the backseat together while my dad drove in silence, every now and then muttering “A-----s” under his breath. We ended up going to Culver’s. My dad sat on the opposite side of the restaurant alone with a book. My mom and I, on the other hand, had an enjoyable dinner.

My parents celebrated their 24th anniversary a few weeks ago. Surprisingly enough, my parents were getting along somewhat cordially. I however was annoyed at my dad for unlocking the bathroom door with a screwdriver while I was taking a shower in order to make sure no water was getting on the floor earlier in the day. I thus declined to join my parents for their celebration of their ever happy marriage. When my parents came home from their date, I sarcastically asked if they had a nice time. But instead of a simple yes or no, they did something disgusting. They kissed. I had only seen this kind of repulsive act from my parents once before and that was when I was seven and noted that I had never seen that from them; I didn’t realize how lucky I was. Their quick peck on each other’s’ lips was quickly interrupted by me yelling

“EWW WHAT THE H--L.” I wouldn’t want the night to be completely void of their sardonic teenager. My father then opened his anniversary gift from my mother, an electric pencil sharpener. “Can we keep it in my room?” I asked. My parents didn’t think it was a bad idea. My father didn’t get my mother anything. As the night went on, I made sure to let my parents know that their little anniversary celebration was the most revolting act I had seen in years. I almost made it a whole decade without having to see any physical affection between them. My mom, somewhat annoyed, told me, “Oh, I used to kiss my Aunt Dawn like that. It doesn’t hurt to try and get along with him once in a while.”

As I slept comfortably in my bed that night, I was awoken by my parents screaming at each other in the kitchen over my mother wanting to write a $20 check to our church. Since my father won’t let my mother write her own checks and doesn’t support any spending that isn’t absolutely necessary, my parents found themselves in one of their routine shouting matches and my precious sleep went interrupted. I looked at my alarm clock that read 2:42 a.m. “So much for getting along” I chuckled as I fell back asleep. I learned how to sleep through screaming parents a long time ago. If only I could figure out how to not wake up to them in the first place. My mother spent the next morning complaining about how much she despises my father. At least I got a pencil sharpener.

As I write this now, my dad is five feet away, yelling at my mom for using the gas in her car to attend a funeral.

“Do you think people would have noticed if you weren’t there? Do you think that was a good use of your gas?”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“Yeah, that was a real good idea.”

“I’m so inconvenient; I’m sorry.” It’s hard not to think my mom and dad would’ve been happier had they not given up on finding other people. But they didn’t, and that’s just the way it is. People always ask my mom

“Why do you stay?” And her answer is “I don’t have a good reason.” My mom has almost ended it a few times over the years. We’ve looked at apartments, had real discussions about divorce; but she never goes through with it. I think I’d guess that 24 years of marriage, as hellish as it’s been, is just too big of a commitment. It might have been nice to have parents that really loved each other, but I think if my parents suddenly started getting along, I’d miss the awful anniversaries. I’d miss the Christmas heart attacks and likely made up doctors. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely don’t enjoy my dad’s irrationalities. But if you gave me the chance to be able to tell people John Stamos is my father and have it actually be true, I don’t think I’d really take you up on it. I’ve seen It’s a Wonderful Life way too many times; I know what happens when you mess with the world. I think instead of dwelling on all the parts of my dad I wish I could change, it’s easier to think, “Well, at least he’s kind of funny.” I could spend all my time focusing on how much I wish I could make my dad into something he’s not, but I think I’d go as insane as him. I can’t change my father, so I might as well accept him. My father is crazy, but he’s the only father I know. He may well be a skinny little a-----e, but whether I’m content with that or not, that skinny little a-----e is my father.