When I was a little bitty girl, my family got a book titled “My Dad is Brilliant!” I cannot remember where this book came from or for what occasion the book was purchased. This book was incredible, because it seemed as though it had been written about my very own dad. My dad is strong, my dad is wise, my dad is funny and most of all, my dad is brilliant.
When I was in high school, I learned how to drive (kind of). My dad bracingly sat in the car with me as I herky-jerkied it around the church parking lot. My dad is patient. When I was in high school, I wanted so badly to be a singer and an actress. My dad spent countless hours sitting at the piano with me, singing songs over and over again. My dad is encouraging.
When I was in college, my dad ran the New York City and the Boston Marathons. I’ve never been more proud of him, than those fleeting moments of seeing him in those little yellow shorts, pushing and pushing as hard as he possibly could to keep on going and finish the race. My dad is strong, my dad has shown me what it is to endure.
Last year I had a heart-wrenching phone call with my dad, with me standing, sobbing, on 56th Street in New York City and he, weeping on the other end, at his office in Ohio. My dad is strong, my dad is loving, my dad is wise, my dad is brilliant.
Now I have dreams of becoming a published writer. My dad thinks this (and anything I dream to do) is awesome. He will read, offer suggestions, offer encouragement, never do it for me, prod and provoke until greatness comes. My dad is smart.
Nearly daily, I call him. It’s our morning tradition (which hiatus is nearly over!!!). Nearly daily, the best moment of my day is when I make him laugh. His laugh validates my thoughts, punctuates my writing and pleases my daughterly heart to no end.
My dad is so very handsome. My dad can rock a pink shirt like nobody else. My dad can cook dinner, make pancakes and sugar cookies, pick good movies, and direct music with gusto.
When I was in high school, I learned how to drive (kind of). My dad bracingly sat in the car with me as I herky-jerkied it around the church parking lot. My dad is patient. When I was in high school, I wanted so badly to be a singer and an actress. My dad spent countless hours sitting at the piano with me, singing songs over and over again. My dad is encouraging.
When I was in college, my dad ran the New York City and the Boston Marathons. I’ve never been more proud of him, than those fleeting moments of seeing him in those little yellow shorts, pushing and pushing as hard as he possibly could to keep on going and finish the race. My dad is strong, my dad has shown me what it is to endure.
Last year I had a heart-wrenching phone call with my dad, with me standing, sobbing, on 56th Street in New York City and he, weeping on the other end, at his office in Ohio. My dad is strong, my dad is loving, my dad is wise, my dad is brilliant.
Now I have dreams of becoming a published writer. My dad thinks this (and anything I dream to do) is awesome. He will read, offer suggestions, offer encouragement, never do it for me, prod and provoke until greatness comes. My dad is smart.
Nearly daily, I call him. It’s our morning tradition (which hiatus is nearly over!!!). Nearly daily, the best moment of my day is when I make him laugh. His laugh validates my thoughts, punctuates my writing and pleases my daughterly heart to no end.
My dad is so very handsome. My dad can rock a pink shirt like nobody else. My dad can cook dinner, make pancakes and sugar cookies, pick good movies, and direct music with gusto.
My dad is good. My dad is loving. My dad is kind.
My dad is BRILLIANT.
Happy Father’s Day! I love you so much!!!!!!!
Happy Father’s Day! I love you so much!!!!!!!
1 comment:
How Kind of you (the "kind" must be pronounced as it is when Professor Henry Higgins says it to Eliza Doolittle - Audrey Hepburn) to write such loving memories. Here's to another bunch, just as good or even better. My daughter is brilliant (and not just because she thinks I am . . .).
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