I freaking love my dad.
Sure, sure, there were tough times back in the 1970’s and 1980’s, when he was variously employed as a less-than-enthusiastic-father-of-three, and then an embarassingly-enthusiastic-divorcé-about-town, and my two brothers and I were forced to spend every second and fourth weekend with him in some tiny little house across town that didn’t have a proper lawn, never mind any neighbor kids our age, and NO NOT EVEN A TV SET GOOD GOD CALL DSS THIS IS CHILD ABUSE.
I mean, really — it was the late ’70s! There were vitally important Evel Knievel specials to be watched! And… and… very special episodes of Good Times!!!
But then I had a minor epiphany when I was about 17 years old, and realized that he did the right thing by divorcing my mom and living his life the way he really wanted to — or at least, one of the Right Things that were possible in that situation. The other ones involving grinding away and suppressing his own personality in a life of increasing misery “for the sake of the children” or submitting my mother to electro-shock therapy so that her personality changed to the kind of person my father enjoyed spending time with. At all.
Add to their basic incompatibility the fact that Dad doesn’t really like children, and he was basically in a tight spot.
I told my Dad, that day that I had my epiphany, that I thought he did the right thing after all, and we’ve been pretty tight ever since.
Now I live in that very tiny house across town, and can enjoy the sound of a house unsullied by the sounds of sitcoms and siblings, and occasionally I spend Saturday mornings on the phone with Dad, catching him up on my life.
Dad is the parent with whom I can occasionally use swear words, or refer casually to my days of casual co-habitation with various romantic partners.
Dad tries really hard to keep up with my changing interests, and pays attention when I talk about stuff I like, so he has some idea of what to buy me for my birthday.
This is in contrast to members of my family who can only seem to recall that I was once obsessed with Snoopy, and restrict their purchases to Snoopy-themed cards and novelty items.
Because, you know, I’m still 12.
So today I’m on the phone with Dad, relating all my tales of Derring Do, and he is ooohing and aaaahing most gratifyingly, and the conversation veers into the difficulty of finding furniture that is suitably dollhouse-sized to fit into this tiny little house on Cape Cod.
I mention a catalog company that my dear friend Saucy has recently brought to my attention, one that produces clean, modern organizationally-enhanced home and office furniture to gladden my little OCD heart.
Dad waits an appropriate period of time — a few minutes, maybe — and sort of coughs and says What was the name of that catalog? …because, uh, because I might want something like that…
Elfa, Dad. E-L-F-A. And God bless your awesome heart, I know as sure as I know my name that you are writing that down on piece of scrap paper that you will keep in your wallet until my birthday in July, at which time you will present me with a $50 gift certificate to Elfa over lunch at the Squire, with a shy little smile and a modesty that continues to charm the socks off of me.
Thanks, Dad, in advance. I love my hypothetical new shelving system from Elfa, because it reminds me of how you listen, and remember, and care.
love
me
Posted in my yoot | Tagged dad, elfa, goodtimes | 3 Comments »

