"They say that from the instant he lays eyes on her, a father adores his daughter. Whoever she grows up to be, she is always to him that little girl in pigtails. She makes him feel like Christmas. In exchange, he makes a secret promise not to see the awkwardness of her teenage years, the mistakes she makes or the secrets she keeps." - Author Unknown
It's almost Father's Day. I remember when I was little and I used to struggle with what to get my dad on this holiday.
"Dad, what do you want for Father's Day?"
He'd lower his newspaper and say "Just your love and respect. That's all I need."
Talk about a frustrating answer. "No, seriously. What do you want that I can WRAP?"
He'd just shake his head. That's probably how he ended up with a lifelong collection of Old Spice products.
I love both of my parents very much, and I've always had a special relationship with my dad. My parents were only 20 when they got married, and hadn't even turned 21 before I was born. One time I figured out the math and asked my dad, "Hey, how come I was only born 6 months after you and Mom got married?" He looked at me straight in the eye and said, "Pretty sure you were a preemie."
Nice try, Dad.
I'm sure a young man barely out of his teens (complete with hippie hair and a love of beer) was a little overwhelmed when his wife presented him with a newborn daughter. What was he supposed to do with THAT? I'm proud to say he figured it all out quickly.
When I was around 4, my dad would watch me while my mom worked afternoons and evenings. One night I begged him to put pin curls in my hair like my mom did. I'm sure he was clueless as to what was expected. But he gave it a valiant effort. Several hours after my hair was pinned, curled and set, he carefully removed all the bobby pins and combed it out.
My hair had been curled and teased to astronomical proportions.
He sat quietly and awaited my reaction.
"Oh my gosh, Dad," I said slowly as I admired it in a hand mirror. "It looks like a MOUNTAIN! I love it!"
And hence, my irrational and life-long love of big hair had begun.
A year later I got my first report card sent home from kindergarten. My dad read the comments from the teacher out loud: "Cannot skip and talks incessantly."
He sighed. "I can't do anything about the talking part... that's your mother's fault. But I'll be damned if a kid of mine can't skip." He set the report card down and instructed me to follow him. He skipped around the living room, with me right behind him, while we sang "Shoe Fly, Don't Bother Me..." together.
I've been a star skipper ever since.
One time in elementary school my dad brought all of us to a fishing contest sponsored by his employer. Every one's names were entered in a raffle. I was thrilled when they called my name. My dad was even more thrilled when he saw what I had won: a beautiful rod and reel. Around the same time that I was collecting my prize I noticed someone else collecting their prize: an orange boat cushion. Immediately I turned to my dad. "Dad I don't want the fishing pole, I want that boat cushion. It's so much prettier. Please?" He tried to convince me how valuable my prize was compared to the boat cushion. I didn't care. What was I going to do with a fishing pole? A boat cushion, on the other hand, had infinite possibilities. I could sleep with it, use it to make forts with my brother, prop my stuffed animals up on it...
Once he realized that the rod and reel weren't going to make me happy, he walked over to the man with cushion and asked if he wanted to trade prizes.
"Are you serious?" the man asked incredulously. "Sure!"
When I recalled that memory years later to my dad, he was surprised I even remembered it. "Weren't you mad, Dad... that I made you switch it?"
He smiled. "Nah, it's worth it just because you remembered it. That guy thought I was nuts."
My dad also taught me plenty of dice games. He played Yahtzee with me for hours on end. I was playing 6-5-4 before I could write in cursive. He also taught me a life lesson I still adhere to: "Never pick up another player's dice. In Vegas they can cut your hands off for that." He also started teaching my kids poker before they even had their training wheels off their bikes. It probably explains why they're such excellent little liars.
When I was around 15, my dad started teaching me how to drive. He drove a big commuter van and he would pick me up from my friends' houses in the summer and make me drive home. I was always a little nervous driving that big of a vehicle. One time after I drove home we were in the driveway, and I began to slow down so I could park the van. Then I made a pretty big mistake: I accidentally hit the gas pedal instead of the brake.
Talk about consequences...
Within seconds I had smashed into my mom's car, then bounced off my grandparents RV, and finally collided with the retaining wall, knocking it out of formation.
We sat there in stunned silence, the only sound coming from the ticking of the engine. I was terrified to even look at him. Finally I found the courage to ask: "Is the van totalled?"
He stepped out of the passenger side, took a look at the front of the van, then wearily sat back down.
"Nope, but it's pretty well f**ked up. Driving lesson is OVER."
Didn't have to tell me twice. I think I ran into the house faster than I ever moved in my life.
Years later he and my mom were helping me move into the dorms at St Cloud State University. I was so excited, I could barely take it. Meanwhile, my dad is driving us in absolute gridlock surrounding the dorms, trying to find a parking spot. I was looking around, taking in all the sights. Right next to us was a white fraternity house, with several men sitting around, drinking beer and watching the chaos. They held up a huge sign that read: "Show Us Your Tits."
"Oh my gosh," I excitedly told my parents, "I'm going to LOVE it up here!"
My poor dad almost had a heart attack. He just kept his mouth shut, though, and continued to white-knuckle grip the steering wheel.
Years later I proudly graduated from college. Shortly after I received my final transcripts in the mail, my dad studied them. He looked confused. "How in the world did you graduate from college without taking any math?"
"I did too take math," I informed him. "It was a class called Theory of Mathematics. We didn't really do any problem solving, but we sat around and talked about it if we ever WERE to do it." Poor guy... he probably did a quick mental calculation of what he had just shelled out for my tuition and shuddered.
But for as different as the two of us may seem to be, we are unbelievably similar in many ways.
We both have long, skinny monkey toes and flat feet.
We both order our DQ Blizzards the same way: 1/2 Heath and 1/2 Butterfinger.
We both abhor the idea of others knowing too much of our personal business. Unlike my mother's side of the family, who will nonchalantly ask you how your latest pap smear went while you're at a picnic during a family reunion.
My dad taught me to be gracious and humble. (Well, he tried with the humble part.)
He taught me how to parallel park and how to skip.
He explained long division and how to drive a manual transmission.
He showed me, throughout his life, the importance of "if you're going to do something, do it right."
He taught me that life is a lot more fun with some crazy thrown in. Doing an ice jump on New Years and the Polar Plunge is now something I include MY kids in.
He may shake his head at my shoe choices, and roll his eyes at some of my political beliefs, but I know he loves me fiercely.
I love you too, Dad.
Happy Father's Day!
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