Many Thanks

I’m a loyal woman. I stick with what I promise to, mostly. I’m generally bright, cheerful and optimistic. I have an attitude that everything will turn out alright if I just keep going. I’m short, at only 5”1. I have brown, wavy hair and hazel-green eyes. I have hairy toes. I carry weight in my caboose. I believe in hard work. I’m generous where I can be. I’m quick to forgive, slow to anger, hesitant to argue. I love extravagantly, with no fear of the well running dry.

All this, I get from him.

He’s the most loyal of men. He sticks with what he promises, mostly. He’s generally bright, cheerful and believes the glass is half full. He often says “She’ll be right” – an Aussie term promising that all will turn out okay. He’s on the shorter side. 5”something. He had dark brown hair with a wave, and one hazel eye, one green. His hair is more grey these days. He has very hairy toes. His mum carried weight around her tushy too. He’s an ambassador for hard work. He’s generous with his time and money. He’s reticent to argue and quick to compromise. He’s full of unconditional love for me.

How’d I get so lucky, you ask? How did I wind up with a loving, protective father who adores me and my siblings? A man who sacrifices time and again to stay in love with his wife, in a society that throws away commitment like day old bread? A man who is idolised by his grandchildren. My son will sit and play chess with him for hours, frowning in concentration as his Pop teaches him the strategies.

How is it that I won this lottery when so many others luck out? I see friends with badly damaged father relationships. Friends who can’t clearly understand a heavenly version of the Father God because their earthly fathers traumatised them so. I see kids who wish someone would turn up on Father’s Day at their school. Or let’s be honest, they’d be happy with them turning up any day of the week. Do I feel guilty for this privilege I have?

A dad who loves me, still. At 44 years of age, I know I could run to his arms anytime. My dad, who loves his wife, after 46 years of ups and downs. My dad, who loves his grandchildren so very much. My dad, who spends way too much money keeping his dogs alive, just because he loves them too.

He’s not perfect. Once he punched the back of the front door so hard that it had a hole in it for years. Can’t remember why. I only remember how ashamed he was that he’d lost his temper. I remember the regret and pain in those mixed colour eyes that shone through his tears.

I look back too and wish that he’d been more strict with me at times. Less sweet love and more tough love. Maybe if he’d told me not to go out dressed like that, or with those people, I could have avoided some painful life lessons. But then maybe experiencing those things has helped make me who I am today.

He used to smoke. Pretty disgusting habit. Gave that up. Praise God. He drinks too much, hurts his body and his family sometimes with it. Has times of discipline and licks it for a while. Hoping this time will be for good. He swears – you might think that good or bad depending on your level of conservativism.

There were a few years in my childhood when I didn’t see him much. He was working three minimum wage jobs to make the mortgage and school payments. He drove a beat up old car and seemed to be out from dawn to after my bedtime. I do remember that when we did see him, he’d lie on the shagpile carpet with us and wrestle, or fly us high up on his legs with his famous ‘flying Rogerelli’. He’d always wipe the tiredness from his face and smile to see us kids, all bathed and ready for bed, waiting for him to walk through the door.

He taught me how to file for insurance when I scratched up my new car, as a beginner driver. He came to my side and held my hand when I was hit by a drunk driver one night. He drove with my mum all the way to the hospital I was at and took me back to their place to watch over me while I slept. He moved into my house with my mum to take care of me when my husband was away and I was crippled with anxiety and the pressures of raising tiny humans with health needs.

I could keep going. I could write list after list of all the good he has done for me and the times he let me down, in his humanness. Though I could catalogue his faults and foibles, and continue to weigh them against his strengths and triumphs, I remain with only one true knowing, deep in my heart. He is the father given to me, my dada, my daddy, my dad, my bro, my dad again and now known as Pop to my kids. And I am immensely blessed by all he has given into my life.

Thanks Dad, love ya.