From David to Dad

The pain was so intense. I sat on the hot sidewalk, holding my foot as tears streamed down my face. My mom bent down and reached for one of the six sticker burrs that had penetrated the bottom of my foot when I ran through the neighbors yard. I screamed, or perhaps it was more of a screech. The thought of her touching it was just too much for my five year old brain to take. What if she pushed it in further by mistake? How was I ever going to be free of this agony?

David leaned down and told me the pain would only begin to go away when the stickers were removed. He spoke with a calm confidence and I sniffled to pull back the tears and listen to what he was saying.

"You can pull them out if you want, or I can?" He said firmly.

I took a deep breath to build up courage, but as soon as I felt the sharpness prick my finger, the fear flooded back in and I quickly retracted my hand. I imagined the pain would transfer from my foot to my finger and the sticker would simply be stuck in a new location.

"You, y-, you do it." I decided through clenched teeth and eyes tightly closed.

David pulled out the first one and I quickly realized the thought of having the stickers removed was far greater than the actual process. He quickly, yet carefully removed all six of the little grass daggers and rubbed the bottom of my foot to show me all was good now. And he was right, the pain was basically completely gone!

At the time of this incident my biological father had been out of the house for a couple years and David was dating my mom. He would later move in and become my stepdad.

It's funny how a moment as small as pulling a sticker out of my foot could leave such a lasting impression, but as I reflect back, I have come to see that it was not such a small moment after all.

As incredible as my mom is, I desperately needed a father figure. Someone to teach me to be a man. To deal with pain head-on and keep moving forward. To not sit down and quit when life brought its many challenges.

This mindset was seared into my heart and mind repeatedly through the years as I encountered failure in school or sports. When I got physically hurt on the soccer field, David would yell from the sidelines, "Feels good doesn't it?"

I always rolled my eyes and thought that was ridiculous. "NO! Pain does not feel good! What is wrong with you?!"

When kids said cruel things to me for being shorter and smaller than everyone else, he sat at the foot of my bed and shared stories about how he was also the little guy and used the negative comments as fuel to grow mentally strong and put in more physical work than everyone else. Get better and shut them up.

He taught me to reframe pain and failure as opportunities for growth. He was teaching me to be tough. To have thick skin and not be overly sensitive. To know who I am and not let any outside nonsense shake me.

At 11 years old I remember running down the backyard to catch a football David was throwing. He taught me to always keep my eye on the ball and said if it touched my fingers I better not drop it. As I caught it, I turned my head and at a full sprint hit the old satellite in the yard with my forehead. Not the little one on your roof nowadays, but the large one that looks like it could connect with alien life in the universe.

The collision levelled me. My feet swung higher than my head and my shoulders hit the ground before any other part of my body.

I groaned, but did not drop the ball. I looked back at David who had his hands cupped around his mouth in a way that should make the sound of his voice travel farther...

"Feels good doesn't it!"

A smile spread across my face because I cared more about the fact that I didn't drop the ball than I did about nearly knocking myself unconscious.

I have come a long way since the sticker burr incident. He was definitely making me tougher. It also felt really good to make him proud.

Handling adversity and pain transitioned to lessons on being strong enough to be a leader, not a follower. To choose to do good even if a bunch of my peers were being sheep, easily influenced to make wrong choices. He was adamant that "CAN'T" is a four-letter word that we Do. Not. Use. in our family. Since it literally is a four-letter word, I never felt like it was a point to be argued against.

Throughout all these years of teaching me to be strong and tough, he also modelled it. I remember he had his knee knocked completely out of place during a football game at a company barbecue. He popped it back in and kept on going. While I think it would have been smarter to go to a doctor, he definitely practiced what he preaches when it comes to toughness.

Despite the rough edge, he was also fun and has never waivered in his love for my mom. Summing up all the value he has poured into me is a challenge because with every passing year in my own journey as a father, I am reminded of lessons I learned that I can pass on to my own children.

David stepped into my mom's life at a time when I really needed a man around. At 23 years old he took on this role to parent two young boys. He did not have to choose this life, but I'm glad he did.

All the small moments that started with simply pulling out a sticker burr, compounded over time and left a lasting impression. David is technically a stepfather, but I rather just call him...Dad!