It’s my dad’s birthday today, so this specific post is dedicated to him but not without the necessary asterisk for the incredibly strong and feminist leader-of-the-pack that is my mom, who undoubtedly makes him shine even brighter.
I’ve talked before about idiosyncrasies that make my dad, well, my dad. Like the fact he puts tortilla chips in his short pockets as a snack or how he often puts his toast in the toaster but then forgets about it. How he loves to pretend to have an accent only his attempt at a Chinese accent sounds the same as his attempt at an Australian accent. Or how he loves musicals, thinks he can sing even though he can’t, and always thought he’d make a good hairdresser despite being known for giving me a haircut in elementary school that prompted me to call my friends to tell them I wouldn’t be around for a bit. The man can nap anywhere; like the time I came home as a teenager and found him face down on the floor with half his body coming out of his office and half his body lying in the hallway, the sound of his snoring relieving any fear he had been murdered. Or how he would sit in his office and eat his yogurt using his writing pen as a spoon and not think that it was gross. Or that time he wrote his text message in the space where you’re supposed to put the name of the contact you’re sending it to and couldn’t understand why it wasn’t sending.
Other tidbits about my dad: he’s as humble as the desert roads are long, he’s a man of his word and has taught me – through action – the meaning of integrity. He was a pitcher in the Twins minor league system and today will kick your ass on the golf course; I once found his notebook of secrets and it included things like, “be sure to stand at a 20 degree angle on hole number 6 if the wind is blowing in the southeast direction” and other creepily specific things I’m quite certain the average person isn’t documenting. Speaking of documenting, he also keeps a notebook where he keeps personal record of all of Trump’s lies, which I find endearing. He also used to interview my sister and I and record them on cassette tapes, asking us about our favorite things and documenting how we’ve grown, etc. I’d give anything to find those tapes but like the toast in the toaster, he seems to have forgotten. And he’s the first to take my camera and ask me to get in the frame, even if the shots he takes are never in focus.
But that’s only a slice of it. These past few months, when my life has never felt as unmanagable, he has shown the fuck up. He’s helped me navigate finances, which I was led to believe to be difficult and you know what? They’re not. He’s walked me through insurance coverage and helped me find the best deals. He’s helped me go after money that was left on the table from things that had fallen through the cracks. He’s expressed concern about the amount of lint in my dryer (worried it might start a fire) and he’s helped me move furniture, pot plants, and fix broken bricks in the yard. The other day I came home to find him in the backyard cleaning up Jimmie’s dog shit. Two weeks ago I came home to him washing my windows. He’s texted me on Wednesday to remind me that Thursday is trash day. And as if even a fraction of that is not enough, he also signed up to help coach the boys’ baseball team. Sitting in the bleachers and having other parents ask me, “is that your dad out there?” has to be one of my favorite questions to answer.
And even beyond all that, I’ve watched my dad simultaneously care for his own mom, who he’s recently moved to an assisted living facility nearby. Talk about a full plate. And when his mom tells him that she hates him and hates her life – because dementia is a hoot – I see his pain and frustration, as well as his patience, and I dunno, it’s all relatable and admirable and there’s just something to be said about seeing your father as a human.
All these wonderful things said, the guy still gets grumpy. My three boys can wear him out and wear him down. And he doesn’t have the best ears and man can he get fixated on details that don’t matter.
But I dunno, pretty sure those things make him all the more special. All the more human.
He’s as loyal as a dog and as loved as they come. Happy Birthday, Pops. I’m so proud to be your daughter.
Image 1: my dad, coming up with word problems for Van while in Maui. | Image 2: my dad, on the beach with the boys.
