Stuff I Love, Pt. 2: Fathers!

If I’d planned this blog a bit better, “Fathers” would have been posted yesterday because of it being, ya know, Father’s Day and all. But by posting my Father’s Day blog a day late, you could say I’m just fulfilling a life-long tradition of keeping dads waiting, one that began when I was two weeks late being born. Don’t ever accuse me of being unreliable, Dad – you know you can always count on my tardiness!

First Time Dad. Note the smile on my Dad's face, masking the sheer terror at being officially outnumbered by tardy women.*

Here follows a very short (because it’s late on a work night) and mostly-illustrated tribute to my Dad.

My Dad is the cuddliest teddy bear in the world; his soft outer shell perfectly represents his heart of jelly—which can be hard to handle at times, because it can be tough to see your Dad be vulnerable, but I’m really glad to have grown up with such a loving male role model. He’s also very morally-upright and intelligent, and I wrote a bit about what I learned about men from him earlier in my blog here. In short, he taught me right from wrong, kept food on the table, and made sure I always knew I was loved. What more could a girl want?

This is my favourite photo of my just-married folks, circa early 80s

Oh yeah, when I was seven he got me a pretty awesome bike, too, so I guess that.

Seven was a tough year for me though. Sure, I got that sweet ride…

Check it.

… but that was the year my Dad had to move away from Liverpool for a job down south, where my family home remains nearly two decades later. He visited as many weekends as he could before he’d found a house for us all, but my stupid seven-year-old brain couldn’t handle the shake up and I thought he’d dumped us. I was so mad at him that I wouldn’t even talk to him on the phone when he called. Now I feel horrible, because I know how hurt he must have been. But you know what? My sweetie-pie Dad wrote  a handwritten letter just for me nearly every single day he was gone. That’s some good Dad-ing right there, kids.

Side note: my brother was five and couldn’t care less that Dad was gone. At first. He started to freak out later, bless.

Sock it to 'em: The fam in the porch of our Liverpool house, around the time we were getting ready to move south. We were so poor, they loaded me in the back of the car with the other bags.

I’ll skip right on past the awkward teen years and just say that now I feel terribly guilty all the time about living so far from home, even though I love it in California and I have a good job and great friends. But my Dad emails me every Monday, without fail, to say he loves me and I’ll never, ever not go home at Christmas to my family. In large part, because then I’d miss seeing this face he pulls every time he dances along to his sax-playing Rudy:

Hey laaadieeeeeeezzz!

I was going to include my granddads in this tribute too, but I’ve officially run out of steam. There’s a Grandparents Day, right?! Watch this space! I know you will, oh so avidly.

Happy (day late) Father’s Day! To my Dad, and to all the great dads out there!

* Oh yeah, that asterisk: My mother is so tardy that she is about 25 years late throwing away those wash bags. They still get used every time my folks leave town. I can’t decide if it’s a little bit icky or if it’s a remnant from her former “hippie” days at Berkeley and she is now just the Ultimate Recycler. Al Gore WISHES he could be so hardcore.

** On one more side note (sorry), I recently started an advice blog, called What Would Sarah Say? It’s very, very silly, with the occasional dash of sheer and utter brilliance (of course). Check it out and email your problems to whatwouldsarahsay [@] gmail.com!

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