If You Don't Stop Crying, I'll Give You Something to Cry About

It sneaks up on you, like an uninvited relative at Thanksgiving—you open your mouth, and out comes your father.

I know this because I said the magic words when my little one was absconding with an item of mine, "The world is not your oyster shell."

My father would say that every time I lifted quarters out of his change jar, or stole a 3 Musketeers bar from the latest place he'd tried to hide them from my incessant pilfering.

There I was, bitching about the thermostat like I'd just won a medal in Dad Olympics. We are convinced when we are younger that it will never be us; we can't possibly stoop to that level, but we inevitably become our parents, no matter how much we resist.

It hits you like a ton of bricks: you're no longer just you; you're a younger version of him—bad jokes and all. You think, "No way. Not me. I’m cooler than that. Aren’t I?"

No. No, you are not.

There are so many classic dad lines that I thought for certain I'd never say. From 'Money doesn't grow on trees' to 'You'll understand when you're older,' they just slip out like clockwork. I've learned that every dad is obsessed with energy bills. I swore I'd never care, but here I am, lecturing about electricity like I own the power company. I've even bought all the right stocks just so I can say that I do.

How come kids never know where their shoes are? My dad always asked, and now I'm living the nightmare.

It's not just nurture; it's some kind of genetic destiny. Somewhere in your DNA is a code for dad lectures. They are like a warm, plaid flannel blanket that you can wrap yourself in when you are doubting your own judgment. Repeating Dad's words makes you feel closer to him, even when you didn't plan to.

As much as it pains me to admit it, "Nothing good happens after midnight" is still solid advice. I am prone to working graveyard shifts, and I can attest to that fact.

I once told my friend's kid to quit running with scissors at a wedding. Who does that? He was 24. I had all of my kids late. They both looked at me like I had beaten Elon Musk to Mars. Your kids roll their eyes, your spouse groans, and you wonder if you've officially become uncool. And yes, you have.

If you weigh things properly, you might have never been cool to begin with, and that's okay. You know your kids will do the same one day—and isn't that just poetic justice?

I have a newfound respect for my father with all of the experience I have had in the job myself. I kept the things worth mimicking and dumped the stuff I felt just didn't fit or work right. Turns out, Dad wasn't just spouting nonsense. He was right about 90% of it. I'd say, "Don't tell him I said that," but I'm confident he already knows.

We discussed this a time or two before he passed when he had observed my parenting firsthand. When you and your dad laugh about how you're turning into him, it's a moment money can't buy. It's almost as if a baton of horrible dad jokes and pet peeves has been passed on.

Those phrases aren't just words; they're life lessons wrapped in sarcasm and dad humor.

One time in my early adulthood, I lit into him like a drunk welder with a blowtorch about what I perceived to be his failures as a father. To be transparent, in retrospect, I had it so damned easy with him as my father, no matter how broke we might have been in comparison to my classmates and acquaintances.

I remember the sadness and the twinge in his eyes. I wasn't used to that. I was more familiar with what felt like judgment and criticism. He surveyed me, blew out sharply, and as if we were in a confessional booth, said, "You don't come with a manual, son. I don't know what in the hell I'm doing. I'm grasping at straws, trying to make the moment work the best that I can, and I try to love you in the best way I understand a father is supposed to. I'm winging it. One day, if you're lucky, you will, too."

Sure, I sound like him now, but at least I'm not wearing socks with sandals. Yet.

Actually, that's a bald-faced lie. I picked up that habit while hiking the Appalachian Trail. You couldn't get him to go anywhere without shoes on. He never owned any sandals the entire time I knew him. I was just sporty about it, a habit that has faded. I'm the most uncool individual with socks and sandals now, fitting every old fart stereotype that prepares me to be fun at parties.

I did become a father myself. I went through all of the biological changes that also come with that. It's strange. Before it was my turn, an Army buddy of mine who had married my cousin met me after a deployment to Alaska.

We were both thin when we were deployed to the Persian Gulf. My cousin gave birth to a son, and the second I laid eyes on my friend, I knew something was different. He was wider, barrel-chested. He had expanded, and it never went away.

The same phenomenon happened to me once I became a father myself. I hadn't noticed it. My mother pointed it out to me. "It's just what daddies do," she suggested.

The older I get, the more I realize how much my dad shaped me—and how often I'm grateful for it, whether he ever knew what he was doing or not. He succeeded in "winging it," and it worked. I hope to the lucky stars above every single day that I do it well, too.

So here's to the good Dads that try hard, their quirks, their wisdom, and the words we swore we'd never repeat. It turns out they knew what they were talking about after all.