A Letter to my Father

Dear Dad,

As it is often pointed out to you, to my great dismay, you are not my biological father. There was a time when my mom had to go it alone, and she did a kick ass job. But you stepped up and stepped in and I'm grateful every day for that. Because of you I know how to do things. Like all kinds of things. I don't, but that's not your fault. It's not like you taught me things and then said, "Son, it would be best if you never used any of these skills and just continued to play video games." Or as you put it, "killing terrorists." 

Let's get into examples. You taught me about the importance of expectations. You knew it would be difficult coming into a child's life and just being Dad. I'm sure you had yourself psyched up for the task. In your case it ended up being pretty easy because I had never known exactly what a Father was or what your job was, I was just excited about the process. It gave you room to screw around and have fun while mom was trying to kick ass and take names with my new-found siblings. But the idea behind the message is still there. Expectations are important. Go into something like you mean it. It may turn out to be easy, it may turn out to be hard, the people you work with or for might be the best, the worst or some odd in-between kind of deal like most Presidents. But if you go in with a goal in mind, a plan set and a positive attitude. Good things have a chance to happen.

You taught me about the importance of discipline. Specifically in regards to chocolate covered candies. As you know all too well, your wife is a woman of iron discipline and mental fortitude. She is a woman who can buy a massive bag of M&M's and put them in a glass jar (you know, the kind you can see through? So the M&M's are just sitting there, looking at you, whispering to you, calling your name lovingly...) and eat one. That's right one. My mother can eat one freaking M&M at a time like she's saving them for the upcoming famine. She eats them one at a time like she didn't buy six more bags because they were on sale for 5% off. You taught me that this was not a real thing, that my mother was obviously some kind of devout priest of some yet-to-be-unveiled Voodoo sect and that I could not live up to her insane standards. You taught me that M&M's, when bought in mass, are to be consumed with the use of a bowl and cupped hands. You taught me that buying M&M's is a really bad idea, and I probably shouldn't do it. Because you, like me, have financial discipline. It is very easy for me to go into a grocery store, walk past the candy isle, and buy nothing. It is impossible for me to have candy, that I know is mine, and not eat all of it immediately. We share in this. We know the struggle. 

You taught me doityourselfitiveness. That's a new word. See, I'm practicing the art as we go. I made up a word for something, all by myself. Could I have used a word like "self-sufficient" "handy" or "tool-capable?" Sure. But it wouldn't have fully encapsulated the idea that I'm trying to get at. When my Jeep broke down in a swirl of heat and steam and I had to push the thing three miles through a rainstorm with a tiny friend with no leg strength and another friend with no desire to help (he steered) you taught me that water pumps were freaking expensive, unless you bought it and installed it yourself. I'm sure you realized your mistake eight hours into pulling out random parts of a half-ton (or more) engine trying to get to a water pump that the book said was here, but clearly wasn't, so we better remove this and see if it's there. But we did it. Did you get a lot of sleep before work? Probably not. But dammit I knew how to replace a water pump. A skill that no longer exists in the computerized world of automobiles, but don't feel bad about it, Dad. The idea of doing something on my own unless it was cheaper to pay someone else to do it, or easier or faster, stuck. Now I look at something and say, "Well, I could do this on my own for $50, or I could pay this guy to do it for $300..." before I pay the guy three hundred bucks and feel really guilty about it. You gave me that guilt, Dad. Thanks for that. 

But, in reality, because of the many instances like the Water Pump Debacle of 2005, I am not a person that stresses out--to anyone but my wife, constantly, over and over again while she listens patiently but seethes on the inside. Over the years I spent with you (and my mother, of course) I learned that I really am a capable man, that things look worse and feel worse when they first happen, and that after sleeping it off you don't really know what you were worried about in the first place. I can handle this. A lot of that I got from you, and years of making me do it myself, but being there when I needed a hand, guidance, or, you know....money and a place to stay for to do things for myself. Millenial Wisdom: To do for ones-self, one must first have a place to do for ones-self. To have a place for ones-self, one must be able to do for ones-self. 

You taught me a lot about family, and not just that family photos are lame. You taught me that family matters, and that you have to put up with family photos no matter how lame they are because they make the people you love happy and that's worth it. But you also taught me that you should complain about the family photos pretty much constantly and make sure that everyone knows you hate photos so that they too know that you're only doing this because you love them. Very much. Now move in front of me, Erin, I want them to see as little of me as possible. Take the picture, dammit! No, I will not move to the side. Well, if I have to move, David has to move. Heh, suck it, David. Cheese. 

And with that you taught me about the Buddy System and how it never works. Whether it's a father betraying his 'buddy' by forcing him, his son, to also be visible in a family photo, or a best friend ignoring your pleas to go to the gym, or a husband not wanting to go to the grocery store with his wife...if you wait for your 'buddy,' you'll do a lot of waiting, and not a lot of doing. This lesson wasn't your call to arms to go friendless and partner-less throughout my life. No, it was a simple way of letting me know that I had two options. I could make plans, and do them, on my own, in a timely manner. Or I could talk about my plans constantly, wait for a partner to pop up, and just never do anything. It's a hard lesson, but a true and valid one. Most people have some level of codependency that they have to get over to be successful in life, it's just more crippling for some than others. You recognized my desire to be social and friend-reliant early, and tried to ingrain in me this idea of, "It's OK to do something on your own." Now I'm relatively anti-social but still extremely codependent. I'm just now realizing that I got the message but missed the core concept of your lesson. Shit. 

But here it is: Dad, you taught me that a father goes to his son's baseball games even though he doesn't really like baseball. You go to his shot-putting events even though shot-putting is probably the most boring event a person could watch. Ever seen a movie that had shot-putting it it that wasn't actually about a group of Greeks getting stabbed to death with spears? You taught me that a Dad is THERE. Not just physically, but in the moment on an emotional and mental level. There was never a time you weren't available to listen. To talk, when I let you. I'm kind of big on oration. I essentially want my conversation partners to nod and tell me they agree with everything I say and laugh at appropriate moments.

You taught me that the best kind of love is the kind that is shown through a smile, a laugh, maybe a fart joke or a mutual understanding that Mom is trying to undermine what's left of patriarchal society through her daughter. You taught me to watch out for thrown elbows, especially in the kitchen. Often near chicken wings and pizza.

You taught me about the Laws of the Jungle. No leftover is safe. Did you know that I still haven't had my food stolen out of a work refrigerator? Because it never goes there. Ever. That's right. I bought a pretty baller lunch box to make sure the Laws of the Jungle would only ever apply to others. 

You taught me about sports, about sports Greats and sports Legends, you taught me that I was the worst kind of human for not knowing who Jim Thorpe was.

You taught me how to grill, and how to deal with complaints. I will forever remember the Burnt King Burgers and 20 Questions.

You taught me that fatherhood is in the moments that you're with family. Fatherhood isn't always about being right, smart, funny, happy or sad. It's about being there and loving the people you're with. It's about your children knowing they can look to you with something that has hurt them or made them happy and know you'll be there, that you've been there, and that you are ready to listen.

You watched me play every sport I ever played. You've read everything I've ever written and listened to me complain about every job and most of the bosses I've ever had. You've watched me open gifts. You drove me to school, jobs, the doctors office, half the Universities in Florida. You drove me to my wedding. You told me that it would be a blur. I thought then that you just meant my wedding but I'm seeing more and more that you mean life.

I'm going to be a father. Yesterday, I was throwing a baseball in the street. I was pulling a water pump out of a jeep I don't even own anymore. I was starting high school, playing football, graduating high school and going into college. Yesterday, I was meeting Amanda. Falling in love with Amanda and marrying Amanda and now I'm going to be a father. And while I am a little nervous, a little preoccupied with the, "how" of it all. I am not scared.

Because all I have to do is love my kid, and be there as long as I can.  You taught me that. That most important thing. You taught me about being a dad, by being...Dad.

That's a pretty big deal. 

For my personal safety I'd like to write an addendum to this note: My mom is a really kick ass woman. Dad, you married a great one. She has taught me more and loved me harder than anyone. My mom is basically the best person on the planet, and I know that my wife will be that kind of mother to my child, and I'm extremely grateful for that. But, Mom, when you read this (which you will because you're the best mom ever) know that I wrote this towards Dad because I'm going to be a Dad but that I really mean that the two of you taught me how to be a family. Through thick and thin. You two have waded through the miles of bullshit together. Made lemonade out of lemons and grenades out of horseshoes and churned out some pretty OK children. If I don't say so myself. 

Thank you, both, so very much.