Nope, it’s not Father’s Day. Today was my dad’s birthday. He’s been in Heaven for two decades, but I still imagine his smile, chuckle, dirty tee after working, and his brilliant mind. I wrote this about him:

My dad was the best! I miss him. I wish I could ask him so many more questions because he always answered every one.

This photo represents a “yours, mine, and ours” family in the 1960s—MY family. For decades, I considered it nearly perfect, for I was the well-loved baby. My parents were also perfect at loving and disciplining me. 

Decades later, the imperfect and destructive choices of behavior from my parent’s past marriages and rearing their children as single parents leaked out in stories my mom and siblings told. It stunned me. No words. 

After hearing these events, I am even more grateful I was the baby. My parents had learned from their mistakes and did NOTHING that harmed me. The bombs and landmines exploded in my parent’s twenties, but by golly, it was a time of peace in their thirties. 

Thanks, Dad, for accepting me for the “puddle jumper” I was, and for putting me as the center of your eye. Plus, for your tireless patience with all of my questions, even though Mom said you wondered if I’d ever stop talking—you never made me feel that way. I never knew. That’s what dads and moms do. Terrific parents make their children feel they are not an interruption, too much trouble to deal with, or ignore or belittle their pain or hurts while they learn about life. 

Thanks, Dad, for learning all those things and for correcting everything you could, while you were my dad.