Rebuilding Rob

On this date every year, I typically take a break from the regular blog posts to reflect. Twelve years ago today, I lost The Old Man. I’m not here to dwell in the past, but to look at where I am today and wonder: What would he think?

When I sat down to write this, I worried I was just torturing myself—dwelling in a sad memory the way people sometimes do. But looking back, I realized there was a three-year gap where I didn’t blog or talk about my feelings on this anniversary at all. I think it’s okay to take one day a year to check the compass.

The Political Compass

Recently, Phred and I were sitting around discussing bills—we’ve started taking over some of my mother’s financial obligations—and the subject of The Old Man came up.

He was a lifelong Republican, a former police officer, and an Army veteran. Given those institutions, it’s no surprise he voted conservative. Phred wondered aloud: “Would Dad really have voted for Donald Trump if he were alive today?” I can say with conviction: No. I remember a conversation from years ago regarding the 2000 election. At the time, Bill Clinton was leaving office and the economy was thriving. The Old Man said, “Things are going pretty good. If Bill Clinton could run for a third time, I would probably vote for him.” That told me everything I needed to know. He valued stability and results over party lines.

I find myself thinking a lot about what he would see if he were here today.

Seeing the Potential

I wish he could see what Kid One has achieved. He’s scuffling through his first year of college, “living the dream” as a starving student on a full scholarship. I am well aware that Kid One is going to do more with his life than I ever did, and I couldn’t be prouder. I imagine the “mother of all road trips” the Old Man would have organized to get down to South Carolina for that graduation.

Equally, I wish he could have met Kid Two. Dad passed just months before he was born. I remember the day I told him we were expecting; he was in the hospital for what would be the final time. He said, “Well, I’ve got to get out of here then! I’ve got a lot to live for.”

I wish he could have been there for the trials and tribulations—the testing, the autism diagnosis, the “Option C” moments. But more than that, I wish he could see the extraordinary young man Kid Two is becoming. My dad used to call my brother “Dick Clark Junior: The World’s Youngest Teenager.” Sometimes I think Kid Two is challenging him for that title; he’s caught in that “tween” space, resisting growth in some ways while desperately wanting to be a teenager in others.

I’d like to think the Old Man would be proud of me, too. I’m not as “well-off” as he was at my age, but I keep moving forward. I think he would appreciate the Art of Moving Slowly—the steady, intentional rebuilding I’m doing now.

The Art of Being Dad

Last night, I sent Kid One money for his tutors. It wasn’t a huge logistical production, just a dad helping his son. That’s what dads do. Or at least, that’s what my dad did for me. My dynamic with Kid One is different than his mother’s, but things are good. I’m showing up. I’m heading to Madison in three weeks to see him.

There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t think of the Old Man. It’s not a maudlin “he’s still dead” morning ritual; it’s more subtle. It’s in my dry sense of humor, the way I talk to people, and the conscious decisions I make to be there for my kids.

Twelve years later, I’m realizing that “being Dad” is the best way to keep him from being gone.

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The article “12 Years Later: The Low, Quiet Hum” first appeared on Rebuilding Rob.