They aren't perfect

Dads aren't perfect. Dads don't always know the solution. Most importantly they don't always know what they're doing. In August it will be fifty years since my dad started his journey as husband. He's at forty-seven years since starting the journey of fatherhood with my oldest sister. In those years, he has made many mistakes. Found many times to be troubled by having three daughters. Struggled to find the best path for his family.

I believe it was August of 1990, I was sleeping outside in a tent, a common practice for me in the summers in Minnesota. It was the rare chance for me to have my own space and to camp since we didn't have the money and dad was always working. I had a friend over this particular night. We were awakened to screams inside our home. We rushed inside to more screaming but this time I heard words. "I killed them. I killed my babies."

Mom has mental illnesses and I have been witness to a majority of the scenarios those illnesses have presented. Episodes focus was not consistent. Some of the top situations were manic cleaning, depression to the point of not getting out of bed, loneliness to the point of taking us out of school, and suicidal talk. She had miscarried several times and that was the focus of this particular episode.

Dad didn't know what to do with this particular episode and called the pastor and a doctor in the church. Mental health awareness wasn't a wildly popular concept at the time, especially in the church. However, if there was one thing our family was, it was churchgoers. Dad went to the church for help before he went to any relatives. He said it was because he was ostracized for going with a different denomination than their parents. I don't know what happened, I just knew my grandparents loved me. They just wouldn't go to our church.

At some point during that night, they got my mother down to just sobbing. The pastor tried to convince me to go to my friend's house, but I refused. You see I had already been institutionalized to my mother's scenarios at that point. I wouldn't know how to walk away from her. I couldn't abandon her even if we were in two separate rooms.

I wish I could remember what happened the rest of that night for the purpose of telling the story. However, it is best for my mental stability that I don't remember everything. What I do remember still haunts me at times.

My dad wasn't perfect, but he did his best in the situation, at the time, and with his beliefs.

My mother was committed to the psych ward in another town. She was there at least until Thanksgiving because I remember an interesting Thanksgiving.

Dad was left to get us ready for the new school year. Explaining to my fourth grade teacher what was going on at home. Cooking us meals, we had a lot of hamburgers and sandwiches. Being a mom and dad to three girls.

When Thanksgiving came, my grandparents were quick to invite us over and to make sure there were plenty of leftovers for us to take home. Having a Thanksgiving meal for lunch and supper on the same day, didn't make the idea of leftovers all that appetizing to me. But we were the polite daughters that Dad asked us to be.

Dad made mistakes on dealing with his wife's mental illness when it came to his daughters. He made just as many mistakes when his daughters inherited the mental illnesses. Those are the times that we really need to focus on that dads aren't perfect, but we still love them.