I get that.
Jeremy will ask me what I’m doing on a random Tuesday in September and I will tell him, unapologetically, ‘Reading my own blog for the hundredth time today,’ never the least bit embarrassed about it.
My dad and I have that in common. We really do like the sound of our own voices. His is audible, mine is in print but, still, when we create something, we like to look it over a few thousand times or so.
There are lots of things I get from my dad: My inability to sit still, my crude sense of humor, my fondness for any combination of ground beef, brown gravy and mashed potatoes. My nose. My chins. My addictive personality. My ability to forgive quickly and expect others to do the same simply because I give them the, Oops, I fucked up, look.
There are worse fathers to have, trust me. There is worse DNA to inherit. My dad is a pretty cool cat. He’s selfish at times, impulsive and impatient but, really, if I had the ability to go back in time and pick a different dad, I wouldn’t. Especially knowing what I know now.
He’s told me I cuss too much, that my house is hoarder-ish, that he wishes I wouldn’t have gotten any tattoos. He’s also told me that I’m beautiful, that I’m smart and funny. He’s tells me all the time that I’m a good mother and a good daughter.
He’s been supportive of every decision I’ve ever made in my life, even if he didn’t agree with it.
He wouldn’t change a light bulb for me the other day because he said I had a husband for things like that.
Sometimes, he sends me text messages just to say hi or to tell me to come outside and hang out with him awhile.
He’s been known to drink too much, gamble too much, be mean to the people who are the closest to him.
He’s also been known to take his grandsons fishing, give good, long hugs for no other reason than he loves me, and dance with his granddaughter until she falls asleep on his shoulder.
I didn’t always know him so well. I didn’t always understand that I was so much like him. I didn’t always look at him across the room and see myself staring back at me.
He fell in love with my mother when he was 15. When he was 20, he knocked her up and married her. When he was 22, they got a divorce. By 25, he was married to Roxy, who he will tell you is the love of his life. Together, they had my brother, Austin, and my sister, Rachelle. He has spent almost 30 years loving her. They’ve built a family, built a life. I wouldn’t change any of that, even if I could but, it did mean that I didn’t grow up in my dad’s house. It wasn’t until I was about 20 or so that my dad and I even had legitimate conversations.
And somehow, on Sunday night, it didn’t matter.
On Sunday, we were at a wedding, sitting next to each other at a table while the bride and her father danced. He reached across Elizabeth’s highchair and grabbed my hand. He held it, tightly, for a good 3 minutes or so. We had a total moment. I can’t even tell you now what song it was. Something about tutus and little blonde curls, I imagine. He must have been listening, though, because my dad doesn’t do things like that. Yet, there we were, holding hands, listening to a song about daddies and daughters.
It was really nice. One of those things I’ll probably hold on to forever and ever.
I get my dad, now. I’m glad I have him.
I believe, wholeheartedly, that God asks babies’ opinions about which parents they want. Gives them a couple of choices and lets them pick. I believe my children picked me and I believe I picked my dad.
I’m glad I was such a good picker, even as an embryo.
I wouldn’t trade him for anything.
Happy Wednesday, friends.
go. do. be.