Today is my dad’s birthday. I think fondly of him on this day. Our birthdays are exactly six months apart, his on March 8, mine on Sept. 8. For some reason I always thought it was special.
My dad was 39 1/2 when I was born. I am his only child. It should come as no surprise that I was a daddy’s girl. Somewhere among my mom’s photo collection is a picture of me in a nightgown at about 4 years old that proclaimed, “Daddy’s Little Girl” on it.
My parents, who did not marry, split when I was 4.
It’s interesting to me that this year the anniversary of his death in mid-February slipped by without my noticing it, but, even some 25 years after his death I still remember his birthday.
This year on his birthday I wish he could see his granddaughter. I have come to accept that he missed major milestones in my life such as high school and college graduations and my wedding.
But, I think that if he could hold Lyla, he would have such a big smile on his face.
My father was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes when he was 12 years old. He lost his eyesight before I was born but he would touch my face and tell me I was beautiful — this was particularly important to me just weeks before his death when I got my first pair of glasses and was suffering taunts of “four-eyes” and the like at the hands of my second grade classmates.
Even though he wouldn’t be able to see her, I know he would touch her face while holding her, and proclaim she’s beautiful.
Who I am was forged by his presence in my life and his absence after his death.
It is unlikely I would be a writer were it not for his insistence on giving me book after book well before I could even read. He gave me Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries, the Little House on the Prairie series, Treasure Island and my favorite, Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein.
I was already well on my way to becoming a bookworm before he died and afterward, I sought sanctuary in books, taking out stacks of tomes from the public library once a month when my mom would take me.
Already I had a temper when he died and afterward, when I wasn’t holed up in my room reading, I would act out angrily. To this day I still have a hard time controlling my temper or being patient.
But all that reading and pent up anger eventually led to writing which in turn became an interest in newspapers in high school and finally allowed me as a sophomore at Interlake to determine this would be my career.
I am hoping that his parenting style will also influence how I am with Lyla, patient, doting, but focused on encouraging her intelligence and natural curiosity. Between time in a montessori school thanks to my mother and the books my dad gave me, I started reading and writing around the age of four. I don’t have those kinds of expectations for Lyla because that’s unfair, but, it would not surprise me if she was smarter than me.
My dad gave me a lot of gifts and I so wish that I could repay him with the gift of his granddaughter.
Today is his birthday and all I can do is say happy birthday, Daddy, wherever you are … with love, from Lyla and I.