Thank You, Dad.
We all have our own idiosyncrasies. Growing up, I was never allowed to touch the walls of my house. Putting on your shoes? Don't touch the walls. Balancing backpack, books and a bag of take-out? Don't touch the walls. Tripped on the doormat and are plummeting face first towards the tile floor? Go ahead and make the landing, your nose will heal...just don't touch the walls. My Dad didn't appreciate finger prints all over the walls. He has other hang-ups too, the typical ones that most fathers harbour. "Why are the goddamned lights on in here?? There's no one in this room!". "We aren't heating the outside! Shut the door" or, alternatively, "We aren't air-conditioning the neighbourhood! Shut the flipping door!". He also has some over-inflated ideas about his own handiness. I think my Dad's suffered minor electrical shocks more times than he can count-he strides toward the electrical box in our family home like he's about to teach it a lesson. He's usually the one to get schooled. Though he still claims it was an uncanny coincidence, some of us think he may have been responsible for a power outage that affected our entire street about 15 years ago. Sure, he likes his walls free of handprints and his street free of electricity, he also likes to be surrounded by family. He likes to tell lame (sometimes inappropriate) jokes and laugh at our strained smiles. He likes to pull out the karaoke machine and treat us to some classic Jim Reeves. He likes to make sure we're all taken care of, watching to be sure that we're getting what we're entitled to and God help the person who's trying to screw one of us over. When I was 13, I started shoveling horse crap for $3/hour, keeping careful track of my hours in a 3 ring binder plastered with New Kids on the Block stickers. My dad often went over my bookkeeping with me to be damn sure that I wasn't short-changing myself. At the time, it drove me crazy but I appreciate his intentions now.
My dad's always been affectionate with us. 'Mushy' may be a better word, actually. He's always quick to shower us in hugs, kisses and reassurance. He'd be there for us in just about any situation, though he's got a weak stomach and even the mention of barf will send him running for the door. When I was about 14, I got hit with one of those "OMG, I must be dying" kind of flus. The kind where you lie on the bathroom floor weeping and shaking. My dad came to sit with me awhile in my bedroom, we were watching t.v. when a Heinz ketchup commercial came on. Watching the red goop plopping all over a plate of greasy fries was too much for my sick stomach to handle. I reached for my garbage pail and started to retch. You'd think I had used a taser on him. He leapt from the bed and said "No. Nope. Sorry." and was gone. Hey, we've all got our limitations. Still, I've never had to wonder if he loved me.
When I moved away for college, my dad phoned me and asked if he could come into the city and take me out for lunch. Just the two of us. At the restaurant, he pulled out a newspaper and began to read after ordering our food. I think we said about 30 words to each other, I sat across from him, fuming while he read the paper. I wished I'd brought a book. When I got home, I called my mom and told her I was less than impressed. She told me that he'd been missing me terribly. She said that he just needed to see that I was healthy, happy and doing well on my own, he just needed to be around me for a bit. The anger fell away and I imagined what it would be like to spend 20 years sharing a home with your offspring, then have them move out. Luckily, he still had my younger brother to remind about the walls but I'm sure he felt my absence sharply in those early months that I was away.
When I was a kid, riding in the backseat of the car, I remember my Dad's big mitt reaching over the passenger seat to me in the back. I'd slip my little hand into it and he'd give a squeeze until he needed it back to turn a corner or park his big boat of a vehicle. No words, no need for them. Sometimes, you just want to hold your kid's hand. Sometimes, a kid just wants to hold her dad's hand. Now, as I drive my kids to the grocery store, I stretch my hand into the backseat and wait for a soft, small hand to grasp mine. For all the years of book-keeping, quiet lunches and gentle hand squeezes, I thank you Dad.
My dad's always been affectionate with us. 'Mushy' may be a better word, actually. He's always quick to shower us in hugs, kisses and reassurance. He'd be there for us in just about any situation, though he's got a weak stomach and even the mention of barf will send him running for the door. When I was about 14, I got hit with one of those "OMG, I must be dying" kind of flus. The kind where you lie on the bathroom floor weeping and shaking. My dad came to sit with me awhile in my bedroom, we were watching t.v. when a Heinz ketchup commercial came on. Watching the red goop plopping all over a plate of greasy fries was too much for my sick stomach to handle. I reached for my garbage pail and started to retch. You'd think I had used a taser on him. He leapt from the bed and said "No. Nope. Sorry." and was gone. Hey, we've all got our limitations. Still, I've never had to wonder if he loved me.
When I moved away for college, my dad phoned me and asked if he could come into the city and take me out for lunch. Just the two of us. At the restaurant, he pulled out a newspaper and began to read after ordering our food. I think we said about 30 words to each other, I sat across from him, fuming while he read the paper. I wished I'd brought a book. When I got home, I called my mom and told her I was less than impressed. She told me that he'd been missing me terribly. She said that he just needed to see that I was healthy, happy and doing well on my own, he just needed to be around me for a bit. The anger fell away and I imagined what it would be like to spend 20 years sharing a home with your offspring, then have them move out. Luckily, he still had my younger brother to remind about the walls but I'm sure he felt my absence sharply in those early months that I was away.
When I was a kid, riding in the backseat of the car, I remember my Dad's big mitt reaching over the passenger seat to me in the back. I'd slip my little hand into it and he'd give a squeeze until he needed it back to turn a corner or park his big boat of a vehicle. No words, no need for them. Sometimes, you just want to hold your kid's hand. Sometimes, a kid just wants to hold her dad's hand. Now, as I drive my kids to the grocery store, I stretch my hand into the backseat and wait for a soft, small hand to grasp mine. For all the years of book-keeping, quiet lunches and gentle hand squeezes, I thank you Dad.
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