Saturday, June 16, 2012

That's who he is

It's Father's Day. So I thought I'd take a stroll back to where there were children in our home instead of wild dogs and grown men. Back to when there were cries and wrestling matches and 'dates with Daddy,' and 'bare-pickle time' and piggy-back rides to bed, and stories on his lap, and all kinds of things that only the tall man could achieve.
This tall man. The one with the sunglasses, holding J, his middle child, his only son. The one who longed for a little boy who would wear gym shorts and high top tennis shoes and follow him around. The one he called Lovey, carried like a football, let him coach with him, hammer with him, drive around on our riding lawn mower, go to basketball camp (long before he was old enough to play!). The one who grieved the shoulder injury, went to specialist after specialist and grieved the loss of sports, then saw to it that J would go to high school where his Dad was a counselor, and encouraged Debate, AP because he saw the brilliant mind of his high-topped athletic, but unable-to-play-sports son. That's who this Daddy was.
This one, holding E, his first born--within hours of her birth. The one whose presence he was so excited about, he called up both sets of parents and told them I was pregnant before I even got home from work. The one he cut his diaper-changing, baby-rocking, middle-of-the-night, "I'll get her" skills on. The one who taught her to dribble left and shoot right, who left her at hoop camp even though it broke his heart, and watched her games and encouraged her every step.The one who helped her start a business and kept it going all the way through her college--then named it after her. The one who said, "Go to community college and play hoops," because that was her dream. That's who this Daddy was.
This one, face to face with SK, his baby, just like he was the baby of his family. The little ringletted one he'd hold on his lap with her blankie, while she sucked her thumb, as he read a story to her, one story after another, after another. And if he tried to skip a page, she'd catch him--every time. The one he'd dance on his feet, play "Pretty, Pretty Princess" with, complete with necklaces and earrings and crowns (oh my, how pretty that giant, good-sported Daddy looked), and drank tea from her pretty teacups. The one who took her on those Daddy-dates and went to concerts and plays, and said, "It'll break my heart to tell her she can't go to Whitworth," then watched God show him the money and let her go. That's who this Daddy is.
Yep, that's who this Daddy is.  You might call him JESKdad, like I'm JESKmom.
But to me, he's just plain Beve.
Happy Father's Day, Beve. Thank you for being the best father I could have asked for to the best children I could have dreamed of.

PS. Happy Father's Day to Grampie, and all the other Dads in my life as well.

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