The Time My Dad Gave Me a Bloody Nose and I Lied to My Mom About It
I knew the rules, it was my job to “suck it up” and help “smooth things over.”
Sometimes there are things that happen that you find yourself spontaneously reflecting on years, or even decades, later. For some reason, yesterday I remembered the time when my dad punched me in the face and gave me a bloody nose.
He’d object to the word “punched.” In fact, he’d recoil at it.
“I never punched you. It was at worst a slap. In fact, it was an accident, you know it was an accident.”
Okay, it was an accident.
My dad grew up in that era where “roughhousing” was the only appropriate male expression of affection. For example, you “loved” your little brother, so you wrestled him to the ground and jammed his face into the gravel.
“See how much I love you?”
“Get off of me!”
My dad was the little brother. I have empathy for him. His older brothers were sadistic. I can’t quite connect the dots between all these feelings. I just notice them like stars in the sky.
I found myself trying to figure out the date of the punch... sorry, “accident.”
