Happy Dad’s Day

I know a lot of dads.  You probably do, too.  Funny dads, quiet dads, strict dads, indulgent dads, one dad, two dad, red dad, blue dad.  Mostly, I know good dads, which is something to be grateful for.

 But, seeing as we are coming up on Father’s Day weekend, I want to talk to you a little bit about my dad.  The one who bounced me on his knee when I was a baby, albeit while chanting a little ditty about burying a dead horse. (Why do we sing such horrifying songs to our children? I mean, “Ring Around the Rosie”?  Even “Rockabye Baby.”  There’s nothing like a soothing lullabye about a baby falling from a tree.)  

He is the one who gave me his nose and his sense of humor. I love him anyway.

He is the dad who was able to keep my hair in presentable pigtails when my mom was working, because tackling a 6-year-old’s locks isn’t much different than grooming the ponies he grew up riding. Apparently. 

He is the one who took me ice skating and out for donuts.  The one who taught me to play tennis.  The one who rubbed my head when I was sick, just like I do for my kids now.

He is the one who got up to work before dawn on Saturday mornings, so he could be home from the office when I woke and not miss spending time with me (i.e., dragging me on endless errands to the hardware store).  The one who made countless other sacrifices of which I am not even aware.  Because that’s just what dads do. 

He is the dad who let me miss a day of middle school to go mushroom hunting with him.  The tradeoff was that I was supposed to write a story about the experience and share it with him.  And he is the one who is still waiting for that story.  Sorry, Dad. 

He is the one who taught me to drive in an empty parking lot.  (Well, he tried. Just like he had tried to teach my mom to drive stick, also in an empty parking lot…with 5-year-old me rolling around in the back of the truck.  Why, yes, I am a child of the 80s. Why do you ask?)  

He is the one who wouldn’t allow me to “car date” until I was 16.  In retrospect, this was probably one of his smarter parental moves…even if it made him significantly less cool in my teenage eyes.

But he eventually recovered some of his coolness factor, and he is the one who became one of my favorite travel buddies. He drove across the country to fetch me and all my thrift-store belongings after a failed experiment in West Coast living during my early 20s.  He even made the drive home a fun experience.  We blasted the Eagles in Winslow, Arizona, and we ate at one of those ridiculous steak restaurants in Texas where you can have the giant steak for free if you manage to ingest it all without puking.  So, you know, the perfect road trip. 

He is the one who taught me that one should never travel farther away from the desired destination, even if it looks like a step in the right direction. (For instance, if your flight to Orlando is cancelled, don’t fly to Denver to catch a connecting flight back south, even if the airline assures you it is the best option.  Just sit tight at the bar in the Atlanta airport and hold out for a direct flight.)

He is the one who caught up with me and my friends when we were backpacking Europe and gave us a respite from youth hostels.  He put us up in an actual hotel. With flags in front of the building!  (Flags were always a key indicator that accommodations were too swanky for our budgets when we were wandering Europe.)  

He is the one who managed to keep me centered on my wedding day. I will never forget him gently directing me to take deep breaths before walking me down the aisle.

These days, he is the one who takes my kids to a waterpark, by choice, and goes on all the rides. Then he is the one who can’t move for 6 days.

He has been my caretaker, enforcer, and sometimes partner in crime. He has always made me believe I could do anything. He has made me feel loved and protected all my life.

And I’m a lot like him – at least that’s what my mom always said whenever I exasperated her during my growing-up years.  

I sure hope she’s right.