Turns Out, He was a Pretty Good Dad
A snotty daughter’s ode to her father
I hear it quite often — “You’re your father’s daughter.” Today, I’m pretty proud of that. Fifteen years ago, I would’ve asked you to politely retract your statement.
Why? Because I was a badass, teenage force to be reckoned with and it appeared Dad was deliberately trying to cramp my style (which often included denim bibs, braces, and Tweety Bird Tees).
Allow me to run through a few scenarios that greatly impacted my youth:
Dad dances in public.
I remember it vividly. Me and the posse walk into Wet Seal to select our attire for the epic Snowball dance of 1998. Music’s blaring and gossip’s exchanged while we scope out Chinese print dresses.
From the corner of my eye, there’s a spinning figure in what appears to be a Wisconsin sweatsh….OH MY GOD MY DAD IS DOING THE RUNNING MAN TO AN USHER SONG IN THE MALL. He just laughed while I aggressively waved him off hoping others wouldn’t recognize we were related. Too late. My friends already darted to the dressing rooms to avoid embarrassment by association. No one caught that moment on a cell phone back then, but had they captured my expression, I imagine it looked something like Claire Danes’s ugly cry. Negative cool points.
Dad wakes me up before the sun.
I played a lot of ball as a kiddo and spent more days on a pitcher’s mound than I can count. While I preferred to practice after school, Dad insisted on waking the troll before 6 a.m.
So there we are, trying to hone the fast ball placement as the sun comes up while he video tapes my form at Converse Park in quaint Marshall, Wis. Dialogue went a little something like this:
“Bobbi Jo. You’re not pushing off the mound like we talked about.”
“Dad. I’m doing my best. Why don’t you just focus on catching?”
“But you’re losing speed. What’s going on?”
“GET OFF MY BACK! I HATE SOFTBALL. WHY DID YOU MAKE ME DO THIS? I QUIT EVERYTHING.”
*kicks bucket of softballs over before walking into the dugout while the camera is still rolling. Dramatic as all hell.
Dad makes me get a job at age 14.
I absolutely needed those Vans and $70 JNCO jeans with that patch on the back pocket. What didn’t I need? To arrive at the local IGA before 7 a.m. to stuff Sunday papers with Edna or get chastised for incorrectly peeling the sweet corn or misidentifying yams in the checkout lane. That happened just about every weekend for two years while I worked an eight-hour shift at the local grocery store for $5.15 per hour. I was also tortured with rotating Alan Jackson and Randy Travis tunes on Y105 because the owner insisted it made shoppers happier. It infuriated this anti-AM troll. Meltdown definitely attributed to Dad.
Dad goes hard on the boyfriends.
Many would argue this is every father-with-a-daughter’s duty, but it doesn’t mean Dad had to assign not-so-nice nicknames to every male I made eye contact with (least adoring being “Ryan-lying-fatso-head”). Dad perfected the art of leading the gents in my life to believe they were in his good graces just before embarrassing them in my presence.
“When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much he had learned in seven years.” - Mark Twain
So that was then. Today, on Christmas Eve, Dad turns 54, and as his snotty 28-year-old daughter, I’d like to share how much I appreciate his quirks and once overlooked lessons.
For starters, we should all dance in public once in a while, and not only when activated by alcohol. Dad can whip a bad mood around with a simple driver’s seat jam session to any song performed by Prince, Madonna, and/or UB40, and that remains to be a blessing.
We should all wake up early and make our beds in the morning. Getting up later than 7 a.m. on weekdays hurts my soul because I’ve wasted an hour of daylight (sunrise > sunset, people). I remember Dad rising at 5 a.m. to crank out business calls from his home office day after day just so he could catch my 3:30 p.m. start on the mound. Sports brought us together, and his contagious work ethic made me not just a decent athlete but a diligent student and employee.
Getting a job at 14 was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life, but it also taught me the value of a dollar, how to interact with real human beings besides the BFFs I cut class with (what? just once/a dozen times), and how hard it is to work off two years’ worth of free deli snacks at IGA.
Dad works his ass off. After pouring in 30 years with the same company, he’s run the gamut of gigs and cursed out every model of fax machine he’s ever been assigned, but he keeps his nose to the grindstone. He’s got a mild addiction to manual labor, too. If Dad’s not shoveling, mowing, hammering, or washing something on a Saturday, the only logical explanation is that he’s glued to a Law and Order marathon or an epic Steven Seagal fight scene on TBS. He often tells me that he’d just like to be my full-time landscaper some day, but I have to keep reminding him I don’t work on Wall Street, I’m a renter, and I reside in one of the most populous regions of the country (he prefers quiet).
Dad didn’t attend college, but when it was my time to enroll, he was more than willing to help ensure I didn’t screw it up completely. Even when he had a short stint working in Atlanta, he sent me gift cards, asked me why the hell I chose to study Italian, and called up “his guy” to ensure I wasn’t getting hosed by the mechanic.
When it comes to dating, well, I’ve probably given my significant others more grief than Dad in the last decade. It builds character. Or resentment? (Status — single white female seeking gluttons for punishment). I was looking forward to returning the favor when Dad was back on the market, but I never make it past nicknames. Good for “Candy Pants,” I suppose.
In August 2013, Dad helped me pack up my Mazda 3 to depart the only place I’d ever called home. We drove 2,000 miles to Los Angeles together. About 1,000 of those were sans air conditioning and we’re still on speaking terms after pitting out for the entire haul to Denver.
In all seriousness, I’m very proud to call Jeff my Dad. He’s personable, fun, accommodating, thoughtful, and full of love and expletives. I owe him a metric ton of thank yous for getting through the teenage sass and supporting me as an adult.
I love you, Dad. Happy birthday and keep on Facebooking in the free world.
