Growing up with my father and three wild brothers, all full of Greek testosterone, was, well, loud.
Basketballs smashed windows, my brothers broke chairs and their fists punched through a wall or two. But my dad, he never treated me any different as the only girl. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to parent a girl. It’s just that he did it his way —- simply.
No, he didn't overprotect me, spoil me, treat me like a princess or even tell me that I was beautiful. He didn’t douse me in pink or filter his language in front of me, either. Instead, he loved me like he knew how. At night, I'd snuggle into my bed and he'd throw my blanket up and it'd float down like a parachute. He'd tuck the sides under my legs and, while walking out my door, he'd say, "Bedtime for Bonzo."
He loved us all that way. Simply.
Being the only girl in our house didn’t mean special privileges or being expected to be girly. Yes, my dad gave me both of the stereotypical boy and girl opportunities: ballet and soccer, dance and basketball. He didn’t care what I excelled at or what I preferred, even if that meant I played and dressed like a tomboy, even if I ran through the mud in soccer cleats instead of pirouetting in ballet shoes. He wanted me to be happy and if that meant that I looked more like my brothers than a typical daughter in the '80s, then so be it. I was content in my own skin and that’s all that mattered to my dad.
Yes, my dad and brothers are most definitely the reason why I swear a little more than the average woman, stomp instead of walk and don't have an ounce of elegance in even my tiniest of fingers. But, I'm a product of their love, their simple love.
As parents, it's hard not to treat our kids differently. Maybe we even favor one over the other or coddle the youngest. I know there are days when I treat my boy and girl according to the genders society has constructed for them. But my dad didn't and I need to remember that. My son can dance if he wants. And my daughter, she can play hockey and become a chemist if those are her dreams. Her dreams belong to her, not me. How our children end up should be on them; not us, as parents, constantly molding their every move, every decision.
I strive to parent like my dad, not to overthink everything like we all seem to be doing today. I guess we can thank technology for that. Yes, even as an avid reader and writer, I need to ignore all of the posts that are aimed to make me a better parent. My dad certainly didn’t have any of that and he certainly didn’t need it. And we don’t either. Yes, my dad’s love was simple and that was enough. It was always enough. Ours can be that way, too.
Editor's note: Angela Anagnost Repke is a writer living in Michigan with her two children, working on a memoir. You can follow her on Facebook here.
