Friday, June 14, 2002 | 5:29 a.m.
WEEKEND EDITION: June 16, 2002
Susan Snyder's column appears Fridays Sundays and Tuesdays. Reach her at [email protected] or (702) 259-4082.
It's taken me 17 years to admit it:
The guy wasn't perfect, but he tried.
It's a sentiment often buried in the sap surrounding these Hallmarkadays we've set aside for parents.
They have to be "No. 1" or "World's Greatest" or "Best Friend."
But the older we get (and maybe the more therapy we receive), the more we realize that Dad probably wasn't No. 1. He probably wasn't even all that good at some stuff.
He (gasp) made mistakes.
Where's the coffee mug for "Dad Was Human?"
Mine died 17 years ago, when I had just turned 24. It's weird to lose a parent at that age. You're not young enough to outwardly need a parent, but you're too young to realize just how much you'll still need him years down the line.
We younger Baby Boomers are among the first wave of women to be treated halfway decent in the office. The glass ceiling was more fragile for us, and the pay more equitable. We really could have it all, if we could survive it.
Those of us who chose to have only part of it, and chose that part to be a career rather than kids, needed Dad. Some of our moms worked, but it typically was a job fashioned around the lives of the children -- her first job.
Dad knew the ins and outs of the office. He could tell you how the guys in the office thought and what they said to each other in the bathroom. He knew when deals were cut, where and how.
He could lend advice on when to speak up, when to shut up and when to simply walk away. He knew about climbing the ladder, which rungs were hardest to hold and which ones would break beneath you.
But we never got to talk about any of that stuff. We never got beyond, "Spend three to five years at your first major job, no matter how much you hate it," because I'd spent only a year there when he died.
I've written a handful of Father's Day columns since -- maudlin tributes from a post-adolescent girl whose dad didn't see her grow up, but simply grow. They told of all that I'd learned from his perfect wisdom.
What a bunch of hooey.
It hit me smack between the eyes this past April, on the anniversary of his untimely passing, that his wisdom wasn't always so wise, and it's OK.
There was his philosophy that "sorry" is a meaningless word found in the dictionary between an expletive starting with "sh" and "sympathy." Well, I have made some mistakes for which I was sorry. I've found saying so works just fine when you mean it.
He was wrong that being honest and ethical is a lonely place. I've found some pretty great people there.
And professionally, it is, too, OK to cry when a project totally blows up in your face -- even if it mystifies male colleagues who figure, as my Dad did, that you can't be a person and a girl at the same time. You can.
You can screw up, cry, be sorry and screw up again. You simply keep trying.
A Dad who isn't perfect but keeps trying beats being No. 1 all hollow. You actually can grow up to be just like him. I'm just sorry it took me so long to figure it out.
So if yours isn't "The World's Greatest" anything, but has tried to be a part of your life, be glad.
He's real.
Tell him you appreciate the effort.
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