On Father's Day

Dad,

You taught me how to bait a hook, hit a ball, run fast, swing for the fences, fall in the mud and get back up, and that skinned knees are a part of a life well-lived.

You taught me that when me and my best friend, "the other blonde girl", fell off the swingset you built in the shade grove in the backyard next to the red shed, because we were swinging high enough to pull the stakes out of the ground, that'd you get the ice packs.

You taught me the value of art, that you loved to paint (mostly boats), and that I loved to draw (mostly horses), and that some of my happiest memories are the weekend hours spent happily meandering the hobby store looking at watercolors and sketchbooks.

You taught me that reading was one of my favorite things in the world, and would take me to the library to pick out twenty books a week from the non-fiction adult section, even though I was only ten-years old. You paid the library fine when I would return the following week with only eighteen of them.

You taught me that middle school would pass, and that my hair was just fine without a perm, and that the big gap in my front teeth would eventually close.

You taught me that I loved a sport, and spent countless hours at the barn, horse shows, and everywhere in between. You learned the difference between a hoof pick and a curry comb, and how to use both. You helped me clean my saddle, pull off my riding boots, and find the best place on my pink canopy bed for all my ribbons.

You taught me that when I got cut from a team, I could cry, but then I would move on and try out again next season -- and then become high point MVP, just like Michael Jordan.

You taught me that if I wanted a shiny, new car like some of my sixteen-year old friends, that I would have to buy one.

You taught me that the privilege of driving the ten-year old Volvo station wagon with the dent in the door and torn pleather seats was something I needed to ask for. Oh, and be home by eleven.

You taught me that when I tampered with the laughing gas in your office during a high school party, that you would ground me. For a very long time.

You taught me that you knew when I tried to sneak out the window on to the garage roof, and that you would then ground me. For even longer.

You taught me that I should apply to colleges for reasons other than what their rugby team looked like.

You taught me that I when I moved my stuff into my freshman year dorm room, that when the elevator was broken, that you'd haul the entire minivan plus a Volvo station wagon's bounty of clothes, stuffed animals, parts of a wooden loft bed, and cans of tuna from Costco (didn't want to get fat!) up five flights of steps, in August, with no air-conditioning.

You taught me to call home, or else you'd call the RA. Seven times.

You taught me the value of a funny card (from the cats) during finals, the mood boost of plentiful care packages containing chocolate chip cookies, and how to laugh it off when I ended up on the fifty-yard line during a football game as a result of an ill-fated afternoon flirting with that fraternity guy and his plastic jug of $3.99vodka and Sunny Delight.

You taught me if I pulled that stunt again, I could find a way to pay my own damn tuition.

You taught me to date people who respected me, and who thought I was as amazing as you thought I was.

You taught me that when I moved into my first real place, and got my first real job, that I should stay at the office until three am if I needed to in order to finish an assignment and to not complain about it.

You taught me to apply to fifteen law schools because you "knew they'd all be lucky to have me." You'd be mad at the one who rejected me, but then brag to friends, colleagues, baristas at Starbucks, about the other fourteen that did not.

You taught me that "I could do anything with a law degree," that "the first year of professional school is the worst," that "you'll get through this and three years goes by quickly."

You taught me that when I spent my twenty-sixth birthday at home, surrounded by books, papers, highlighters, in pajama pants with unwashed hair because it was three days before the Bar exam, that you would show up with a cupcake and a sparkler and ten minutes for gifts and the promise of a real birthday dinner when I passed.

You taught me to refuse to even entertain the notion that I would not.

You taught me that you would make good on that dinner promise, and let me order the filet with a side of lobster tail and champagne and chocolate cake and more champagne without looking askance at the bill when it arrived.

You taught me that you would then spend the next six months introducing me to everyone I met as "my daughter, ESQUIRE."

You taught me even though you raised your eyebrows and worried about my career when I told you I was expecting Ethan, you showed up in the delivery room and called every single person in your cell phone list to tell them that you were a grandpa.

You taught me that tears are sometimes OK and cried when I told you that Ethan's middle name was "Charles", after your father and your brother.

You taught me that life can be unfair, even brutal, but that it should not let it knock me to my knees, and that there is no other option but to keep going.

You taught me that when I go to the hospital, you'll come with me, and expect an explanation about every nuance of my MRI and track down some cookies when I am waiting for my IV.

You taught me that while professional success is to be admired, that family comes first, and that no amount of money, or job prestige, is worth sacrificing that tenet, and that being a parent is the most important thing in the world.

I love you, Dad.