Happy birthday, Harry O.

Today’s my dad’s birthday. He would be 99. Isn’t that crazy? We would have had a big party. And he would laugh and tell inappropriate jokes and probably offend somebody. I’d offer him a drink, and he would ask for Turkey 101, which I kept a bottle of just for him. He wanted to live to be 106 to break the record of his oldest living relative because he was competitive as F$%K.

I miss him.

Some days more than others but really a lot today. He was such a character. When I was a little girl, he traveled frequently and brought me t-shirts from wherever he went. My favorite was from the Playboy Club. I had no idea what that place was or what the bunny symbolized. I doubt that my mother did either because she let me wear it every week–only once a week though–to kindergarten. I loved it so much that even after my mom bleached it until the sleeves were lavender instead of black and parts of the bunny were falling off, I still wore it. And picked at the bunny’s ears.

He also bought me Pete Rose and Johnny Bench jerseys, which I loved almost as much.

I used to get migraines when I was little–4 or 5 I think because I still slept on a cot in the hallway, since there wasn’t room for a 7th kid in our 4-bedroom house. My dad took a course in hypnosis to try to help me. He even made a tape of himself that I could listen to if I got them while he was out of town. I don’t remember if it helped, but it was so dear.

When my brother came home from his last day of 6th grade with his friends’ autographs all over his shirt, I was sad about being homeschooled and not having friends to sign my shirt. That goofball signed numerous crazy versions of Harry O. Swan on it. It wasn’t the same, and it made me mad at the time because he ruined my shirt. But now he was so desperate to make me feel better … it makes my heart ache a bit.

He used to take me to baseball games at the old Cleveland stadium when the Indians sucked, and you could sit wherever you wanted. We walked to Mollenkoph stadium to watch Harding football games, and stayed til just after halftime because the majorettes were my favorite part. But then we had to go home because my mom got nervous if we were out too late “on foot.”

When I was in 7th grade, he retired. I was still homeschooled at the time, and we started watching soap operas together…As the World Turns and Guiding Light. The next year, when I went to public school, he would tell me everything that happened with the characters. He did this for years.

I loved the band INXS, mostly the beautiful lead singer, Michael Hutchence, who died tragically young. In the early days of MTv, my dad would watch all day when I was at school, thumb poised over the remote, to record their videos for me. I probably still have a vhs tape somewhere with Need You Tonight on it.

He saw the world in an interesting way and cracked me up with his observations. Once, noting my mom’s affection for Brad, he mused, “I think your mom might like your husband more than you do.” He also gave me random advice on how to “take care” of Brad, which usually prompted me to leave the room, and Brad to squirm out of the conversation saying, “I’m good. She’s good. We’re good.” Good grief.

My dad wasn’t perfect by any means, but I think the most important thing you can do for your kids is to make them feel loved. He made a lot of mistakes, but I knew he loved me. Oprah always says we all need the same things…”Do you see me? Do you hear me? Do I matter?” I knew that I mattered to him. And he adored my kids in a way that absolutely astounded me.

I read a book recently called Lost & Found by Brooke Davis. It is a quirky, charming and bittersweet novel, but at the end was a short essay by the author, who lost her mother in a tragic accident. She writes: I am beginning to understand that grief is now, simply, a part of everything I do, everything I say, everything I write. Everything I am.

For awhile after my dad died, I was so busy being grateful for the peaceful way he died at such an old age that I didn’t let myself be sad that he was, in fact, dead. But as that author points out, when you lose someone you love, you have to kind of “relearn the world” without them in it.

I’m still doing that. I still have things to tell him. Some days, I wish that I could walk into that Porter Street house–which may or may not be a meth lab now–and roll my eyes and correct him when he called me by my sister’s name. I’d love to climb into his lap and rub my thumbs into the indentations his thumbnails wore into the wooden arm of his chair.

We could sit for a long time and not say anything. Then he would gasp as if he had the most important news in the world and say, “You know what happens?!?”

“Shit,” I would respond.

“You got it,” he would chuckle.

Happy birthday, Dad. I wish we could have a room temperature beer and watch The Price is Right, but Chloe and I will drink mojitos in your honor. I love you and miss you. Every. Damn. Day.

Father’s Day Revisited

For the past few weeks, our life has been filled with changes. I’m a big fan of change. I don’t like monotony. My family will tell you I never make the same dinner twice. Sometimes that’s good, but other times, Brad and Peyton exchange glances that say, “I wish she would have written that one down.” Oh well.

One of the biggest changes is Brad’s job. He has been working so hard, adapting to so many new challenges, being stretched reallllllllly farrrrrrrr out of his comfort zone, and homeboy does not like change. With that in mind, I’m hoping that I can make father’s day not suck for him this year.

Especially since he gave me the most amazing mother’s day gift–one of those I-Spy Birdhouses. You know, the one that sticks on your window so you can see the bird making a nest? I. Was. So. Excited. And he bought it while he was out of town and had it shipped so it a surprise. Usually, we walk through a store, I show him what I want, and he makes a clandestine trip to get it. 

I immediately set it up and waited expectantly for birds. For weeks. I had so many big dreams. There are orioles living in the tree next door, maybe them, or a hummingbird, shoot, I’d even be happy with a regular old robin. The other day the kids yell, “MOMMMMMAAAAAA, GUESS WHAT!!!” I run to the window only to hear, “THERE’S A WASP MAKING A NEST IN YOUR BIRDHOUSE.” Really? I got you, Universe.  

So I keep thinking about how to make this father’s day really awesome for him instead of staying in my bed crying all day because my dad is dead, like I’ve done the past few. My heart goes out to a few of my friends who just recently lost their dads. You are in my thoughts and prayers this weekend. More and more people I know have lost a parent; I guess we are kind of getting to that stage of life. On the flip side, lots of my friends are also having grandbabies, and I’m pretty excited about getting to that stage of life. I mean not yet, but soon.

Back to parents. The kids and I were having a great discussion last night. Here’s some context: You know when you are at the playground, and there is always a kid with no parents in sight? The kid who keeps coming up and tugging on your arm saying, “Hey, watch me! Hey, can you push me on the swing? Hey, are you watching?” The kid that follows your kid around, and after everything she does says, “I can do that too. Watch!” Is it just me? Tell me it’s not just me.

We were talking about that kid, and the kids that sit on everyone’s lap, the girls that seek male attention way too early, and the boys that seek female companionship when they should be playing catch. My kids have never really been like that, and I hope it is because we filled their love tanks at home. They don’t have a big extended family involved in their lives, but they have us. And we love them enough for 10 people.

Back to Father’s day. I’m all over the place today, I apologize. I have heard that the best thing a dad can do for his kids is to love their mom, and my husband does that very well. And to some degree, I agree with that. However, the best thing that my dad did for me was to make me feel loved and valued. Granted, it wasn’t until later in life, but better late than never. I knew no matter what other people thought of me or said about me, there was one man who thought I hung the moon, and I will miss him for the rest of my life.

And you know what? My kids know that their dad thinks they hung the moon. He makes our girls feel beautiful and special and deserving of the very best, and he connects with our son intellectually and athletically and gives him a great example of how to be a man, a husband, and a father. He is a perfect mix of playful and serious, and my LORD, he is good looking.

So this year, I vow to spend Father’s day loving my baby daddy and being grateful for a season of being my own daddy’s little girl.

Peaches and Pain

It feels like fall today, which simultaneously makes me happy and sad. Happy because I love fall. Sad because winter follows, and I don’t like winter. I love so many things about fall: football, fires, pumpkin coffee, pumpkin everything, fresh apples, hoodies, snuggling under blankets. When I was little I loved going to the Harding football games with my dad. We usually left at halftime, after the bands performed,which was my favorite part. I held onto his pinky because my hands were little and his were big. We walked through an area of Warren, that most people probably wouldn’t walk through at night with their kids now, but I never felt afraid.

Yesterday, Chloe told me she missed my dad. I missed my dad too. It was funny–weird, not haha–though not really because Chloe and I are always eerily connected. Once, I woke up in the middle of the night really worried and uneasy. I prayed for about two hours and finally went back to sleep. She told me the next day that she had wandering through the streets of Pittsburgh at the time. Missing my dad is one of our few sad connections. Fortunately, Chloe hasn’t been dealt a lot of sadness since she carries so much of mine.

My bff lost her grandpa earlier this year, another dear friend lost her grandma last week, some of my closest friends lost their stepdad/father in law a month ago, a dear writer I adore and admire lost her mom yesterday, my mom lost two more friends in the last month. Often in empathizing with others, I’m drawn so far in that I relive my own sadness. A few months ago, I had a dream about my dad, and in it, he told me that my mom was going to die. I had longed to dream about my dad for quite some time, but this wasn’t exactly what I hoped for. In the dream, I wasn’t sad or upset and kind of fluctuated between dreaming and logic. Course, I guess that’s where I usually am: fluctuating between dreaming and logic.

For as long as I can remember, every time I went into my parents’ playroom, I sat on my dad’s lap. When I was little, when I was grown, when I was happy or sad. Sometimes I sat on his lap with one of my own babies on my lap. Sometimes we talked, sometimes we laughed, sometimes I cried and sometimes he did. When I was really little I used to do his hair. He sat patiently while I did. It was so hard to walk into that room after my dad wasn’t in his chair.

This morning, I ate a peach, and it reminded me of the peach trees and raspberry bushes in our yard growing up. I used to eat fruit until I was sick, coming into the house sticky and stained. My mom made delicious jam. Then one year, in an aggressive fertilization attempt gone awry, my dad killed the peach trees and the raspberry bushes. The bushes were a total loss, but the trees still grew, though they never again bore fruit. A few years ago, in a super romantic move, Brad bought me a peach tree. It died. Last week, I drove past my parents’ old house in downtown Warren, and the peach trees had been cut down. Guess I’ll stick with farm market peaches for now.

I think the point of all this is reminding and retraining myself to focus on the beauty, the memory, the what was and what is and what could and will be rather than the pain of the loss. Tomorrow isn’t promised, but part of the beauty in this life is the fleeting nature of everything we hold dear. So my sweet friends who are sad today, I am holding you close to my heart and lifting your cares to God.