I haven't written anything in forever for a number of reasons: mainly because I am a first year teacher, but also because I had a blog identity crisis. While I started this blog because I wanted a venue to express my feelings about my dad's death, I found myself wanting to write about other things, and I wasn't sure if that's okay.
But, you know what? This is mine, so of course it's okay. That is, however, why the blog has a new title.
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Today is my dad's birthday. He should be 48, but he isn't.
My dad hated celebrating his birthday, probably because it fell two days after Christmas. He was always victim to "after thought" presents or, perhaps worse, the dreaded joint gift: a present that counted for both days. His birthday was also difficult for me logistically, as my parents divorced when I was a little girl and neither parent would help me get a gift for the other one. One year, I gave my dad a motorcycle keychain as his present because it was the only slightly masculine thing I found in any of the stores I went to with my mom that day (and she wouldn't allow me to go off by myself). Every single year, he complained about that motorcycle keychain... but he also kept it. It was probably still in the straw basket next to his stove when my grandfather cleaned out his house.
My dad didn't like sweets ("I crave salt," he would say), and usually refused to eat his own grocery store birthday cake. He would begrudgingly go over to the grandparents' house for a few hours, bicker with his sister, and then we would head home and watch his blurry television on his comfortable, albeit dog-haired covered, couch. We wouldn't watch anything in particular, usually just a little bit of everything that was on. He would spend the most time on the Public Access channels, reading the details of events he would attend and making up stories about the "bitches" who chaired the PTO. We would leave it on the NFA channel for hours and try to guess what song was coming up next. He would fall asleep by 7:00 (his snoring was legendary) and Chris and I would yell
"Wake up!!!"
"I wasn't sleeping," he would protest, and would mumble something before falling asleep again. If we were particularly mean, we would throw water on him to wake him up a second, third, or fourth time.
"I'll bet you I can fall asleep in the next 20 seconds. Wait... wait... watch."
And, of course, he would. And then the cycle would repeat.
My dad's birthday didn't mean a lot to him, but it means a lot to me now. I wish I could tease him about being 2 years closer to 50. (Oh, the gag gifts I would have bought him for 50!) I wish I could have bought him yet another t-shirt he'll probably never wear, or maybe even a replacement remote controlled helicopter that broke a few years ago. I wish I could watch him not eat cake, but devour an entire raw steak when he got home. I wish, more than anything, I was not sitting on my brand new, terribly expensive, almost dog-hair free couch and was instead on his cozy, well-loved sectional; the sectional my high school friends wanted to come over and nap on when they had bad days.
Instead, I will just spend the day missing him, and looking for the number 11 wherever I go. Happy Birthday, Daddy.
