我关于老爸的最初记忆--实际上也是我对所有事情的最初记忆，就是他的力量。记得那是一个傍晚，在我家附近的一栋正在修建的房子里，没有完工的木地板上有着一个个巨大而可怕的洞，我觉得这些黑洞眼肯定通往某些可怕的地方。33岁的老爸用他有力的大手抓住我幼小的胳膊（那年我4岁），轻而易举地把我甩到他的肩膀上，让我高高在上地看着刚才我所看到的一切。
父子关系随着时光的流逝发生着变化。它也许会在彼此的成熟中枝繁叶茂，也许会在令人不快的依赖或独立中变质。对当今单亲家庭中的很多孩子而言，它甚至根本就不存在。
然而对于一个生活在二战后的小男孩来说，老爸就是一个神。他有着超凡的力量和神秘的本领，无所不能，无所不知。他会做很多神奇的事情，比如上自行车链，造仓鼠笼子，指导我用拼板玩具来拼字母”F“--在那个没有电视的时代，我就是用这种方式学会了字母表。
当然，老爸也会教我些规矩。最开始就是如何去握手。握手可不是手指僵硬地握在一起，而是要有力地握着对方的手，同时要同样坚定地注视着对方的眼睛。老爸常说：“别人是通过跟你握手开始认识你的。”每个晚上，老爸下班后我们都会练习怎样握手。那时候我刚刚学会走路，戴着一顶旧克力夫兰印第安帽子，煞有介事地奔向高大的老爸，和他一次又一次地握手，直到握到足够有力为止。
随着时光的流逝，我还有很多其他的规矩要学。“无论何时，凡事都要尽力而为。”“从现在做起。”“永远不要说谎！”最重要的一条就是“凡是必须要做的事你都能做到。”当我十几岁的时候，老爸不再告诉我该怎么做了，这让我既害怕又兴奋。他教给我思考的办法，不再告诉我在生活的重要转折点会发生些什么，而是让我明白除了今天和明天，生活还有很多的内容--而这些是我之前从未考虑过的。
有一天，事情发生了变化--这是我现在才意识到的。我不再努力地去取悦老爸，而是努力要给他留下深刻的印象。我从来没有邀请过老爸去看我的足球赛，他工作压力很大，几乎整个周五的晚上都在忙着驾驶操作。但是在每次大型比赛时，当我向边线看去时，总能看到老爸那顶熟悉的软尼帽，老天作证，对方队长总能得到一个让他铭记于心的坚强有力的握手和坚定的注视。
后来学校发生的一件事和老爸的言论矛盾了。我怎么都不相信老爸会错，可是书本证明他确实错了。这样的事情后来越来越多地发生，加上我的个人阅历，这些都支撑我自己的价值观的形成，可以这样说，我和老爸开始各走各的路了。
与此同时，我也开始发现了他对一些事的无知、偏见和弱点。然而我从来没有在他面前提起过这些，他也从未在我面前提起过。不管怎么说，老爸看起来是需要保护了。我不再向他征求意见，他的经验似乎也与我要作的决定不再相关。老爸自愿给我当了一阵子的“参谋”。可是最近的几年里，他经常挂在嘴边的政治和国家大事被空洞的差事和小病取代了。在病床上，老爸给我看他扭曲的身体上那些个疤痕和他林林总总的药瓶。他跟我倾诉：“有时我真的想躺下来睡着，然后再也不醒来。”
经过很多思考和亲身经历后（即“凡是必须要做的事你都能做到”），去年冬天的一个晚上，我坐在老爸的床边，忽然之间记起了35年前那所房子里的吓人的黑洞。于是我告诉老爸我是多么爱他，我向他讲述了周围的人为他所做的一切。但是我接着说他吃得太少了，而且还躲在房间里，不听从医生的话。我说，再多的爱也不能让一个人去珍爱生命，这是一条双行道，而老爸没有尽力去做，决定权在他自己的手里。
老爸说他知道这些话从我嘴里说出来是多么不容易，他是多么为我骄傲。“我有位最好的老师，”我说，“凡是必须要做的事你都能做到。”老爸微微地笑了笑。然后我们坚强有力地握了手，而这也是我们最后的一次握手。
几天后，大约凌晨四点钟的时候，妈妈听到老爸拖着身子在黑洞洞的房间里走来走去。“我有些事必须得做。”他说。他支付了一沓的账单，还给妈妈列了一张长长的单子，单子里包括了一些应该做的法律和经济上的事情“以防不测”。接着他给我留了一张便条。
然后，老爸回到床上躺下，安详地睡着了，再也没有醒来。
I Still Choose “Mom” 我仍然选择“妈妈”
Anonymous
I watched through blurred vision as my husband， Chuck， walked away with his ex-wife.
The heaviness in all our hearts was almost unbearable. Turning back to my stepson’s casket I somehow helped my children pluck a rose from the brother spray to press in their Bibles. With tears streaming down my face， I rested my hand on the son spray. I no longer knew my place.
God， I silently screamed， how did I fit in Conan‘s life？
From the moment I’d met my stepson， I was in awe of this angelic little boy whose bright， blond hair seemed to glow with a heavenly radiance. At only a year-and-a-half， he was built like a three-year-old. Solid and stocky， sleeping curled in my lap， his tiny heart beat against mine， and a maternal bonding began stirring inside me.
Within a year I became a stepmother to Conan and his older sister， Lori. Soon after that， a visit to the doctor revealed some dishearteningnews.
“You have an infertility disease，”the doctor had said，“You might not ever have children of your own.”
At twenty-two， that news was shattering. I had always wanted to be a mother. Suddenly， I realized being a stepmother might be as close as I would get， and I became even more involved in their lives.
But thankfully， four years later we joyfully discovered I was pregnant. Chase was born， then two years later we were blessed with our daughter， Chelsea.
I loved being both a mom and a stepmother， but as in any blended family， it had its ups and downs. Chuck‘s ex-wife had custody of his kids and gave them more freedom than we gave our children. Needing to be consistent with our rules， I’m certain we appeared overly strict to his kids. On their weekend visitations， I usually felt like an old nag.
As a second wife， I was jealous of my stepchildren‘s mother. I complained about her and her husband within earshot of my step kids， and even grumbled about buying my stepchildren extras on top of paying child support. Somehow I overlooked the important fact that my stepchildren were the innocent ones thrust into a blended family.
Then one day at a gathering of my own family， I watched as my mother went up to my stepmother and gave her a hug. I turned and saw my father and stepfather laughing together. Having always appreciated the cooperative relationship my parents and stepparents had， it occurred to me that Chuck’s children longed for the same. So Chuck and I decided to work hard at bridging gaps instead of creating them.
It wasn‘t easy， and changes didn’t come overnight， but they did come. By the time Conan was fifteen， a peace had settled between parents and stepparents. Instead of griping about child-support payments， wevoluntarily increased them. And finally Conan‘s mom gave us copies of his report cards and football schedules.
I was proud of my kids and step kids. After graduation， my stepdaughter married， and she and her husband built a house together. At seventeen， Conan had become a sensible， intelligent young man. With rugged good looks and a deep， baritone voice， I wondered what fortunate girl would snatch him up.
But then came that phone call， changing our lives forever- Conan was killed instantly by a drunk driver.
Over the years we’d been married， Chuck had reassured me that I was a parent to his children， too. He sought my opinion in matters concerning them and relied on me to make their Christmases and birthdays special. I enjoyed doing those things and looked upon myself as their second mother.
But in his grief immediately upon Conan‘s death， Chuck suddenly stopped seeking my opinion and began turning to his ex-wife. I knew they had to make many final decisions together， and I realized later that he was trying to spare me from the gruesome details， but for the first time， I began to feel like an outsider instead of a parent.
I also knew the driver responsible for the accident had to be prosecuted， which meant Chuck and his ex-wife would have to stay in contact. Those ugly jealousies from the past began to resurface when， night after night， he talked to her， seldom discussing their conversations with me.
