Happy Birthday Dad!

I love that when we are born, our world is so small that we can only see far enough away to know that someone else is there; our first days are spent taking in the faces of the ones who will love us the most.  As we grow, the world grows with us, so that we meet our family, our friends, ourselves.  I love my dad, who has been there from the beginning of my world, at first holding me and comforting me, then teaching me necessary skills, like how to hide junk food from mom, how to jump a dead battery on a car, how to wash the dishes, and always kick an assailant in the shins (if necessary, aim higher).  As I grew, I also came to understand that my dad was a separate person with his own history. 

When I was in the first grade, our class made family trees.  The teacher explained how we all had a mom and dad, and they each had a mom and dad, who we called Grandma and Grandpa.  I went home confused and asked my dad why I only had one Grandpa.  "My dad is dead," he responded.  "What happened?" I asked breathlessly (how crazy is it that I knew what death was?!).  "Your grandpa had a heart attack while he was water skiing.  I was 13 years old."  "Why did he have a heart attack?" I asked further.  "He ate too many potato chips," my dad responded, thus causing a lifelong dislike of potato chips.  Then I asked him to describe how my grandpa looked, so I could put him on my family tree, but on a branch that was already in heaven.  He told me my portrait was very accurate.

Another time, my dad told me about being a little boy in NEW ORLEANS.  Since his other stories were about living in New York, and we lived in Texas, I assumed that New Orleans was another state, and I wondered where it was, and what it was like there.  When we learned states and capitals in the third grade, I was once again confused that our teacher had not taught us about New Orleans.  Maybe it was in another country?  What an exotic childhood my dad had lived.

One thing about my dad that everyone seems to remember is his birthday.  I grew up knowing that every summer, on the fourth of July, we celebrated my dad's birthday with a cake decorated like a flag and on the evening of this day, we would climb to the roof to watch fireworks.  I didn't know what made our city throw such a huge celebration for him, but of course, he was my amazing father, and it seemed appropriate.  Since there was no school in summer, it took me a VERY long time to make the connection about what July Fourth represents to people not in our immediate family.  Especially since the year we found ourselves at my aunt's house in Tucson in July, I overheard her say to my dad, "We let the mayor know you're here this year for your birthday, so they planned fireworks to celebrate."  Then we sat outside and watched the sky once again light up in honor of my dad.  Every time I see those colorful lights in the sky, I think of my dad.  One year, while I was a flight attendant, the pilots let me in the cockpit so I could look down and watch the fireworks exploding beneath us as we flew, and I wished my dad could have been there with me.

For the man who has been there for me from the beginning, who told me everyday that I was beautiful, smart, and special (to the point that I can't help but know its true), who picked me up from school and insisted that I tell him something about my day other than that it was "fine", who learned how to use a curling iron and dress a Barbie doll, who made it through trips to the mall, boyfriends who became husbands, daughters who became mothers, and always managed to be himself:  Happy birthday Dad.  I can't imagine who I would be or what my life would have been without you!