Perfectly Dad

My earliest memories of Dad: I sit by his knee as he strums his guitar and slaps the baseboard So hoist up the John B sails, see how the main sail sets, send for the captain ashore, I want to go home… and You’ve never seen such a sight in your life, and the little ones chewed on the bones-o bones-o, the little ones chewed on the bones-o. He blasts a trumpet to wake us on our birthdays even though he doesn’t play the trumpet. His cheeks feel scratchy just like the dad’s face in Pat The Bunny.

Dad says: See you in the morning when the sun comes up and doooon’t beee scared and when you’re sad think of all the people that love you.

Dad sits in his office chair of his new house, writing on a yellow legal pad. I watch his pencil from the beanbag in the corner, thinking if I memorize the movements of the eraser I might teach myself grown-up handwriting. I hear the whir -clickity- click -ping of his electric typewriter and want to get my hands on the correction fluid. Dad lets me ride my Bigwheel through the living room of this house, and roller skate on the wood floors. Did he pick out the Sesame Street curtains in my bedroom, or did they come with the house? We pick mulberries from the tree over the front stoop and sometimes he plays handball on the sidewalk with our across the street neighbor Martin.

We’re at the park and he lifts me bench-press style up-up-up-up-up, down-down-down-down-down. I’m too old for this now, we realize as I sail over his head and tumble on the grass. We laugh, and know that was the last up-up-up/down-down-down. On this same trip to the zoo he says yes to cotton candy—but first he better taste it to make sure it isn’t poisonous. Same goes for half of every ice cream cone. He smiles huge and calls me Funny Face. I crack him up, by smushing my cheeks together or pulling the top of my nose way back and pretending to be a girl named Jodi from Waukesha.

In high school, Dad says yes to late curfews and my own phone line, and R-rated movies. He says yes to loaning me his car, sharing his double-mint gum on the dashboard and rarely to borrowing his sweaters.  Dad is handsome and lumbering, affectionate and reasonable. Fond of puns, bad jokes and Dave Barry, Dad reads the comics and never appears to tire of The Far Side page-a-day calendars I give him for his birthday year after year. He delights over fancy fruit-shaped marzipan or tubes of baking marzipan or even the gross pig-shaped marzipan given to him every Father’s Day.

Sometimes Dad Israeli dances through the living room like he did as a teenager growing up in Brooklyn to see if he can distract me from the TV. He fills the entire family room floor with his 6 foot plus frame–stretching before a run, tube socks pulled high to his knees. Dad’s sneezes scare the crap out of me.

Dad says: Please be quiet is nicer than shut-up and please don’t finish my sentences. I always finish his sentences.

Dad attends soccer games and recitals, ballets, performances and plays. He plunks out sheet music to Peter Pan with me when I get my first call-back. He consoles me when my nervous vibrato ruins Touch The Wind to the extent that I sound more like the elderly male cantor at temple instead of a future Broadway ingenue. He gently suggests that looking up to the sides of the balcony might help my stage-fright, but also shows the audience only the whites of my eyes. He gets such a kick out of my spouting early-American colloquialisms as Mrs. Gibbs in Our Town, that 25 years later he’ll still remark, apropos of nothing, Potato weather for sure!

He helps move me into my first college dorm. He allows me to feel as far away or as close to home as I like while at the university in our town. He hires my roommate who needs money, compensating her handsomely to bring in his mail at work when he travels. He also becomes the first investor in her business idea a decade later.

When I decide to pursue acting professionally he writes me a letter expressing his confidence in my abilities and decisions. Years later when I decide to leave a high-paying corporate job causing me misery—despite a husband in grad school and no idea of my next step—he deems my thinking sound, my actions thoughtful.

Dad says: I love you and I’m proud of you. That makes sense and I understand. I know you’re not asking, but I’m here. All I’m saying is don’t be shy if you need help.

Dad becomes Papa. He makes regular visits to our condo, where our toddler greets him at the door with PAPA PAPA PAPA! He plays patty cake and makes a pile out of their hands, moving one on top of the other faster and faster until neither can keep up with the hands or the laughter. He reads story after story, and tickles a tiny neck with Grandma Jo’s refrain Head of hair, forehead bare… chin-chopper chin-chopper chin-chopper.

Dad checks in every week. He says: Anyone up for pancakes this weekend? I know you’re all busy. Lunch later this week?

Dad loves his work as a labor arbitrator. He drives many miles for hearings, and hopes to continue deciding cases for many years to come. He loves walks and birds. He loves to stop by our house on weekend afternoons.  He’ll take some orange juice (no ice) if you have it, but only if it’s no trouble.

Dad is imperfect; he’s twice divorced, and he regularly sends me texts intended for his girlfriend. He went through a phase of pronouncing fajitas “fa-jay-tas” on purpose in Mexican restaurants, and if he starts a sentence Was (insert name) your classmate or your sister’s? he’s about to tell you about an obituary from the morning paper. He likes to know what our friend’s parents do for a living–and now what our friends do for a living.

But he’s perfectly Dad, and he’s ours. I love him so.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

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Listen To Your Mother loves dads! Check out some of our favorite dad stories in celebration of Father’s Day!!