My Mom and Dad with my Eldest in 2008

Today, as my daughters present their father with “breakfast in bed” including a lovely glass of their version of strawberry milk and peanut butter pancakes, I watch the man rave about the dining experience until they giggle with delight (and I think he might be risking a repeat for lunch!); I can’t help but think of my dad.

He doesn’t like to be embarrassed and I will do my best not to make a run at it.  But I have a lot to thank him for… After all, whenever I get a compliment on my sense of humor, I think of him.  I think of my dad, who encouraged us to be witty and funny, who taught us how to tell a great story and a great joke.  He taught us how laughter can be a survival skill.  He taught us that at the end of it all, no matter what’s happened, it’s better to cap it off with a smile.

He’s not perfect.  (What man is?)  But I have such a vast love and respect for him as a person, and even now, a woman Very Grown, with little girls of her own, I acknowledge that making my father proud remains a life goal.  There is almost nothing that will push me harder or faster than the notion that I might disappoint if I don’t try.  As my family jokes, I’m slow to get on my feet but once I’m there… Watch out!

And on Father’s Day…I have to share a story.

My father was in the Navy and when I was very little, I used to love his patent-leather shoes.  Every day when he came home, we had a little ritual, where he would change out of his good polished uniform dress shoes and into his house slippers at the door.  It was my job to bring the slippers and I’m sure the mind exaggerates these things, but they filled my arms and it was this “Big Job”.  I loved it.  I loved huffing and puffing and making a show of it and then lining up his mirror-sheened black shoes up against the wall by the door.  I would rearrange the laces and take extra care not to put what my mother called “pudding fingers” on daddy’s nice shoes to ruin the shine.

And then he was deployed to Vietnam.

My mom put a picture of him by my bed and we did what all military families do every day when they have men on tour.  We hung in there, we went on with our lives, we prayed and we worried. Well, mostly mom and my sisters worried.  I was Very Little.  I was fairly certain that Daddy was enjoying his “cruise” and that life was good.  I had the distraction of teddy bears and hobby horses and barbies and cardboard boxes and cookies…I used my popper vacuum while mom watched “days of our lives” and played the days away.  Months passed.  Maybe it was years.  I was in a bubble of motherly love and family adventures…

And then the ship came in.  We dressed in our Sunday best which meant lace-topped socks and my shiny black mary-janes, a navy blue pinafore with a big white collar that I wasn’t a fan of… Mom was so nervous and the twins were, too.  Me? I was just looking at the gigantic grey ship and wondering what all the fuss was about.

And then this man came up in his crisp dress uniform and Mom was crying and hugging him and the twins were climbing this guy like a tree and… I wasn’t having it.

He didn’t look like daddy in the picture.  He looked different to me.  And I just wasn’t sure about this guy.

To his credit, my dad didn’t push.  He told my mom to give me time.  ”We have all the time in the world, babe.”

He took us on a tour of the ship and that I remember…the smells and the painted EVERYTHING (rails, floors, doors, ceilings, everything seemed to be painted with grey or white or…) Up ladders and down corridors, in hangars and in quarters, we got to explore to our hearts content with “The Guy” as our friendly guide.  I didn’t pay attention to the narrative details…but most of the men on the ship knew “The Guy” and wanted to shake his hand.

And then we were on the vast deck, and by chance, I was standing next to “The Guy”.  And I looked down.  And there they were.  Black patent-leather mirror polished dress shoes.  My heart was beating fast so I decided to test the waters.  I put my own little black patent leather shoe up alongside his, measuring a bit, inhaling the scent of his cologne and listening to the sound of his voice.

And then it hit me.  This wasn’t “The Guy”.  This was MY Guy.  This was MY Dad.

I begged him to pick me up and then I don’t think I let go of him for hours.  He carried me around and let me hug his neck and it was the homecoming I hope he’d wanted.

Bottom line: Neither one of us let go after that day.  Thick and Thin, Ups and Downs, Adolescence and Growing Up and Older…nothing will ever change how much I love My Guy.  I love you, Dad.  And don’t worry.  We have all the time in the world.