October 10th was the deadline for the RSVPs to our wedding. Lots of people waited till the last-minute to send theirs in or notify me of their incapability to do so.
One of those people was my dad.
In addition to that, he also had not responded to my last few text messages over the last few weeks. (“Few” is vaguely descriptive I know, but it’s been about 2-3 messages and 2-3 weeks so it’s the most accurate word for this circumstance.)
When I’d last seen my dad about a month ago, he’d talked about song suggestions for our father-daughter dance, one of which being the ever popular “Butterfly Kisses.” My immediate response without hesitation was, “No, I don’t think so. Maybe something with Sinatra. You still like Sinatra, right?” I do detest the “Butterfly Kisses” song. Nothing against the artist either, just about the way it romanticizes the father-daughter relationship that I never felt. As you might’ve judged (especially if you’ve read past entries), I’m definitely not a “Daddy’s girl.” I’m totally good with that too–actually, the whole “Daddy’s girl” concept really creeps me out, but maybe because it’s so hard for me to imagine a healthy father-daughter relationship.
This song suggestion from him also came after a mention that maybe we (he and I) should take dance classes together. Huh? Uh, Dad, you know this day is about Bill and me, not you and me, right? Again, I understand some women like to have special choreographed dances with their fathers for their weddings. I don’t criticize them for wanting that. I will assume those same women to have had their weddings paid for (in full or part) by their fathers or parents. My dad has given zero dollars at this point, so… there’s that to consider. Again, I don’t have a very close relationship with him, so this mention came quite strange to me.
October 9th I got my dad’s RSVP. On our RSVP cards we left a spot for guests to input a song request. Guess what his request was? Fuck that fucking song.
As I read his RSVP, my blood pressure shot up. I felt my cheeks get hot and my stomach turn. I was going to have to suck it up and make it our father-daughter dance song.
Or, was I?
I washed dishes, angrily scrubbing our plates and flicking water all over the sink and back splash. As I cleaned them, it was as though I’d cleansed my thoughts.
Hello clarity! No! No, I don’t have to do it! You know why? Because I don’t fucking want to, that’s why! Because–
1. I am not responsible for making my father happy
2. This is my wedding day with Bill
3. My father has contributed $0! He has no say!
Most importantly, let’s look at number 1. I am not responsible for making my father happy. I am not responsible for my father’s happiness. I have no control over my father’s happiness. Why should I let his silly request that we’d already talked about before impede on my happiness? I am responsible for my own happiness. I have control over this situation.
Man, adulthood can be pretty great when you realize how empowered you are. I feel free, like a… butterfly. A flying one, not one that’s dead and pinned in a shadow box for someone’s wall decoration.
For the record, since this realization my dad not only called me but has offered to give me an undisclosed amount of money, more so dedicated to the rehearsal dinner which is already half paid for (thanks, Grandma). He also mentioned to my mom about giving her money for half of my dress. I told him to make paying my mom back his priority, that I’m already in the midst of the rehearsal dinner plans and don’t really want to go back over them again because he suddenly wants to offer money. All that aside, I’m still not feeding in to his song request. I don’t feel the need to. I’m less than a month away from all of it now.
My last day as peace keeper ends on 11/10. Come 11/11, I will do what I want and say what I want, in an adult, tactful way.
While still always wishing…
May good things come to you always.