It’s father’s day, and I’m the one who walks away with a gift.  I’ve been working on his present for a while (but it’s still not ready yet).  Dad slips me a $100 bill as I leave for the Pedro The Lion concert in Brooklyn.  “Please, take a cab home.”  I wanted to just cry on the spot.  He loves and cares about me so much.  He’s the one I call at 7am with anxiety—and he always gives the best advice. 

He held my hand when I broke my nose in 4th grade, and promised me he wouldn’t leave my side.  And when Jules was too chicken shite to come with me for an abortion, Dad sat with me through every waiting room tortured second.  He’s seen me through it all, as a mentor, a hero, an always-approachable friend.

I know we grow up to realize our parents did the best they could, that they aren’t perfect… but well, he’s pretty damn close.  He is my gift.  I couldn’t feel more blessed. 

When I took some time at his house to decide about Jules and our marriage, he drove me to the city every day for work.  When we rallied in the kitchen, ready to leave in the morning, he began, “You have to eat something.”
“Dad, you don’t understand.  I CAN’T eat.”
“You have to try.”
“I CAN’T.”
“But these strawberries are delicious.”  He says with a strawberry tucked in his cheek, raising his eyebrows up and down.
“Okay.  Fine.”
He washes each one and plucks the green pith, wrapping them in a paper towel and slipping them into a plastic baggie for the road.  And that’s when I knew.  In that moment, I realized I deserved more—deserve a man who will take care of me too.

A lot of women like being treated like dirt because their father’s were absent or treated them like ass.  I’ve got the opposite problem.  He set the bar, HIGH.  And now, I’m stretching and working on my reach… I’m on my tippy toes snacking on carrots looking for a good apple.  The low-hanging fruit can go to her house, not mine.  But that’s not all I learned from Dad… click here for the list.