grateful #43 - my dad's pride

 On the last day of school in the 2^nd grade, my dad celebrated my perfect report card by taking me to lunch and getting me the Optiums Prime toy I so badly wanted.    That’s not my earliest memory of my dad, but it’s one that stands out; I’m fortunate in that I have so many to choose from; my dad has been so present and involved throughout my entire life.  With the exception of a few of my friends, I can’t recall anyone else whose dad has been such an active participant in his child’s life.  I can only guess as to the reasons for this; the pressure society puts on men to be strong,  authoritative, and in charge, yielded a generation of dads who were hands off emotionally, sometimes not there at all, or only there to dole out responsibilities and punishments.  The way my father raised my brother and I had little to do with strength and power, and much more to do with family values and love.

I did my fair share of stupid things as a teenager, but what kept me out of any real  trouble wasn’t the fear that my dad would kill me or ground me for eternity.  My fear was seeing disappointment in his eyes.  There’s nothing worse than disappointing someone who thinks the world of you.   And he truly does think the world of me. 

Last year, my dad sent me print out (which I still have) of the email he wrote to my brother with the play by play of one of the most important tennis matches in my high school career, along with several newspaper clippings he kept from 1993-1997,  highlighting my scores and statistics.  He came to every match; he rearranged his schedule and his appointments to make sure he was at every tennis match I played.  In the email he wrote to my brother, which I didn’t see until 20 years later, you would think my dad was describing the world’s most talented, heroic tennis player to ever get on the court. 

I know my dad told me he was proud of me, but for him to take the time to describe how proud he was of me to someone else?  That’s legit. That's the real thing.

And now as the 35 year-old who has taken up this little blog endeavor, I find myself picking up the phone to conversations like this:

"Hey blair."

"hey dad, how are you?"

"i could be better."

"why?"

"id be better if i had one of your articles to read."

"ha, ok.  i'll write one."

"they really make my day."

My dad calls my blogs my "articles."  It's quite possibly one of the cutest things ever.  

Again, the support and pride my dad shows me is unwavering, still.   I am grateful for my dad's constant and complete pride he feels towards me.  The superhero student, the superhero tennis player, and the superhero writer my dad makes me out to be are only indicative of the kind parenting my father does.  And now I'm telling the world in one of my articles how proud I am to have him as my father.   That's legit.  That's the real thing.