My Dad has always been a somewhat bipolar personality. Not that he actually has bipolar disorder (at least, not to my knowledge). What I mean is, my dad fluctuates between being incredibly, frighteningly, impossibly serious... and a sort of a coked-up version of a goofy kid show host. (and by "Coke" I mean Coca-Cola, not the nose candy.) (not that it matters, as Dad is an upstanding member of the LDS church and, as such, indulges in neither of the above.)
Letters from Dad tend to be formal. Like a business letter, except from the same guy who used to sneak into our rooms at night for the express purpose of scaring the bejeezies out of us. After which he would cackle hysterically and do the same thing again 10 minutes later.
For a lot of my childhood, may dad was a mystery to me: an authoritarian figure who worked and traveled a lot. He seemed somewhat mystified at how exactly he had ended up the patriarch chief of a veritable village of rambunctious children.
So I think it is with some sense of incredulity that my dad ended up with a daughter like me. You see, in some core tenets of my personality, I am exactly like my dad - only much, much less organized. I'm a perfectionist. I'm stubborn. I work best alone, but I like someone to stand next to me and hold the flashlight. I have a short fuse and hot temper. I don't do things half-way. I'm loyal and honest and I care a lot more than I show.
And so it is that I finally begin to understand my father. I begin to understand how hard it was for him to let me go, to watch me grow into someone he hadn't anticipated, and to let me know that - for all the ways he might wish that I was different - he is extraordinarily proud of who I am.
And in so many ways, big and small, I am also proud of who he is. I am proud of who he has become. We don't have to agree on everything - I don't think any fathers and daughters ever do. But I remember so many things, so many times when I have been happy beyond words that he is my father.
*every time I have hard my father really laugh
*the handful of times I have seen him cry
*every time he asked "Who's the cutie?" to inquire who had caused the latest disaster in our house
*he made every Christmas incredibly organized, but still magical
*he pretended to believe I didn't know how the minivan got that dent in the side
*he surprised us with a trip to Maui, and the childlike glee in his eyes at pulling it off was priceless
*the "date" he took me on for my 16th birthday, which also happened to be my first visit to the Hard Rock Cafe
*he came to the "Prom" send-off parties, took photos, talked gravely to my dates, and told me I was lovely
*the necklace he gave me when I tried out for the fifth grade talent show. ( I still have it.)
*the coin he brought me from Papua New Guinea. I wore it on a necklace until it got stolen in the locker room one day. He brought me a replacement for the stolen coin, and I still wear it as my lucky charm
*The day I got married, it wasn't the kind of wedding he wanted for me. Even so, when he walked me down the aisle, he beamed with pride. When he lifted my veil and kissed my cheek before leaving me with my husband-to-be at the end of that walk, he did it with grace and glowing smile.
Most recently? I remember how he held my infant son in his arms and wondered at him - Jack's broad chest and sturdy bones, his dark hair and deep eyes. The moment I saw in his eyes how much he adored my precious little baby, I fully realized how much he loves me - and how much I love him in return.
Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.
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