If It's Not Unconditional, It's Not Love

I consider myself insanely blessed in this life. For a multitude of reasons, but the main reason very readily jumps out in my mind, and that reason is my father.

When I was born, my father was 34. I was the first child he had ever held, as he actually disliked children at the time, and I must have done something right that first day because he was forever changed. I'm also the eldest of three girls.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to forget that our parents are just people. In fact, until you reach your thirties, or have your own kids (whichever comes first), you likely will have no idea what they went through. When I came around my parents were still young, and still enjoyed socializing, going out, partying, whatever you want to call it. They say that no one is ever truly ‘ready’ to become a parent, and that lack of readiness exhibits itself in different ways, depending on the people.

So, shortly after I was born they got someone to watch me and went out to a party.

The way my Dad tells it, they hadn’t been out long when he simply and suddenly had the realization that he would rather be home with me than anywhere. That being out just felt wrong. That glorious selfishness of youth had evaporated and suddenly being with his newborn daughter was the only priority. Having been a party kid myself, I personally consider that one of the first selfless acts he ever performed for me, and it wouldn’t be the last.

My mother became restless shortly after I was born, and wanted to go back to work. She wanted to go out. She still desired those freedoms, and no one could fault her for it. My father said no problem, and he became a stay-at-home dad. Every day he would put me in my stroller, and we’d cruise along by the sea, and we’d end up at his favorite bookstore & coffeeshop. I would sit quietly, and he would sketch, and we would just coexist like that--father & daughter.

When I was five, we moved to Hawaii, as my mother wanted to pursue her dream to be a professional hula dancer. She got a job performing at the hotels for the luau shows, and eventually became part of an award winning hula halau, a Hawaiian dance troupe. My dad is a woodworker, and though he made little money doing it, created exceptionally beautiful pieces out of koa and maple and curly oak, that would sell in the local galleries. He won a few awards as well. I grew up quite poor, but you would not have known it, as we were never without anything we truly needed.

When I was six I started playing soccer with AYSO. We had the worst team because we lived in the smallest town, but he came to every game, and always cheered me on. He even went so far as to be the Assistant Coach if no one else could take the role that season. Not exactly how he planned on spending his time, but he did it for me. When we continually lost by more than ten points, he would always figure out how to make me feel better.

My parents divorced when I was ten. I remember a lot of fighting that started when I was eight, but have definitely blocked out most of the memories and continue to be awful at confrontation. One memory that I have retained however, is that my Dad never liked yelling, and would always be trying to tell my mom to be quieter, for our sake. He was always very aware of our presence.

When I lived with him after the divorce, he always gave me the biggest room, and a bed, and he would sleep on a futon in a room the size of a closet. He never got angry at me, even when I started cooking and burned the chilies and we had to vacate the house.

We all moved back to California when I entered high school, and it got even tougher. We all lived in the vicinity of one another for the first year on the Central Coast of California, but then my Mom started dating an old boyfriend, and moved us down to Ventura. He didn’t talk about it at the time, but my Dad would sleep in his workshop all week so he could come down on the weekends and afford to get a place for us to stay, so that we wouldn’t have to always be in transit.

It upsets me that I can’t recollect more details from my youth. For whatever reason I have lost or blocked so many. I feel as though there are so many other gems and memories mixed in that I’m missing--that there have been enough of these small, insanely selfless acts, that they might overflow lake beds and riverbeds and carve a path of unconditional love all the way to the sea.

As I get older, and as he gets older, it becomes more and more important to me to attempt with seemingly futile gestures, to vocalize the immensity of the love and appreciation I have for this man. To imagine life without him makes me physically ill to no end, and I would sooner choose immortality for him over me. Of course, in his infinite wisdom he wouldn’t want it, and says that he wouldn’t be a good father if he didn’t prepare me to be a human that could stand upright without him. So I suppose I'll keep working on that part.

He still supports me in every way. Every financial slip, every heartbreak, every illness, every goal, every dream...he’s there, offering prophetic wisdom, flowers, birthday cards, and of course, the occasional overdraft prevention deposit.

I recently became half his age, which is a terribly confusing mathematical concept, but at this point, I have officially been around for half of his life. As much as I try to always be a person who helps others, has been told I have an ‘old soul,’ and tries to offer what wisdom I can when it’s solicited, I still feel like a child, and what I offer is absolute fluff compared to the grace and power of his gentle counseling.

Some heroes are simply born I suppose.

Ultimately, I continue to be amazed, and thankful, as I have realized exponentially over time how blessed I am to have been born to this particular man, who continues to showcase endless and unconditional love, through a series of small selfless acts, day after day, year after year.