I don’t know where you are in the world, but I am writing this from sunny Australia! And yes, it is fairly sunny, even in winter, as it is here, although thankfully the warmer weather is on its way to us as we approach spring in a few days. What else warms my heart this week, is father’s day. If you have been following my blog for a while, you will probably know I write some standard posts each year.
I write a new years post, and a GALentines day post. There will be an Easter post, and then a mother’s day post. I sometimes, although with less consistency, write a Halloween post, and shortly after that, you will be hit by an onslaught of my Christmas posts! This year, it dawned on me, that I have never, as far as memory serves, actually written a Father’s Day post. Which is really odd, because I am out and out a daddy’s girl.
I know many of you, might not have had the privilege of being raised with love and care from your father, and for that, I am deeply sorry. I can’t imagine having grown up without my own, being that most of my favourite memories from my childhood have him in them. I am, therefore, writing from a place of privilege, and don’t recommend this post for anyone who may find it triggering.
I don’t know if what I have been told is true, but I have always loved the story of how my mother fell on an escalator when she was 6 or 7 months pregnant with me, and my Dad’s first concern was “the baby!” Apparently I was daddy’s girl long before I was born. Although I don’t remember much before I was 3 or 4, I remember all the times I would cry because I fell down, or banged my head, and my dad would make me giggle by marching over to the wall and giving it a good telling off for hurting his little girl.
I remember him paying me to collect the snails off the leaves in the garden, and lovingly spending hours every weekend cleaning the pool in the hot sun, testing the water PH and getting all the pool toys out the shed for me, because I was afraid of spiders. I remember him teaching me to swim, and fixing punctures in my bike tyres. I remember him carrying me on his shoulders for so long that my legs lost feeling and felt all heavy and tingly when he put me down again. I remember listening to the sound of his voice through his chest as I cuddled in to him if they were out late with me at a friends house as I fell asleep.
As I got older, I remember him helping me in long jump by giving me a boost, then lovingly taking me to the emergency department when I broke my arm as a result… where I promptly told the doctors and nurses that “daddy threw me!” I remember him getting up early and taking me to netball in the rain and diligently watching the games even if I was often the reserve player. I remember him driving me and my friends to brownies, coming to collect us again a short while later, and dropping my friends home on the way.
I remember him taking me to get a puppy, against my mum’s wishes and letting me bring back the male dog I fell in love with, when I was specifically told to get a female. I remember him caring for, loving and walking that dog for many years after I shirked my promised responsibilities and moved out of home! I remember him buying me the pink sheepskin rug from some farm, although there was no room for it really, either in the car or at home.
I remember him taking a stand at the airport because I was not seated with him on a family trip around the world, and him insisting I needed to be seated with him in case of an emergency, so he could save me. I remember seeing on the news about war and bombs and expressing concern that myself or my brother might be sent to war, and him reassuring me he would go in our place, as he had lived his life and we were yet to live ours. I remember feeling naïvely secure in this. I remember him telling me if I ever got lost, to stay exactly where I was, because he would not rest until he found me safe and sound. I remember him taking me to the driving range or mini golf, or taking me and my friend to adventure world. I remember him riding the rides I was brave enough to ride with me.
I remember wandering off at some international airport and hearing the panic and terror in his voice that he had lost sight of me. I remember my brother fearing that anything might happen to me while in his care, for fear of dad’s wrath. I remember him driving me and my friends to and from work, when we all got part time jobs at the supermarket that was not the local one. Being there at 9pm to drive us all home to houses not especially close together. I remember him advocating for my rights when said supermarket tried to dismiss me without following due process and keeping my job for many years after that.
I remember him taking me and my friends camping, despite fears that it didn’t look appropriate, and making sure he slept in the car while we were in the tent. I remember him buying my first car, making sure it was blue and had a bubble butt just like I asked for, then registering it and insuring it and servicing it long after I was 18. I remember him moving my furniture both times I moved house.
I remember him walking me down the aisle, and dancing with me at my wedding. I remember the lovely words in his speech. I do not remember a single moment I didn’t feel loved and protected, safe and secure.
But those aren’t my only fond memories of him. I remember him getting drunk and wearing his silly Scotsman outfit at new years and boxing day parties. I remember him always having to “finish his cup of tea first” before he did anything. I remember helping him in the hash house when he started rogaining, and the way he lovingly chased my children in endless games of jelly monster and their squeals of delight. Not to mention taking me and my son back to the UK to meet the extended family, and then patiently spending nearly all 24 hours or so of said flight pacing up and down the plane aisle with my crying baby, as it was the only way to calm and quiet him. (We later learned, when dad took him to the doctor when we arrived, that the plane had hurt my son’s ears and he’d developed an infection - hence his miserable discomfort!)
We didn’t always see eye to eye, dad and I, probably because we are more alike than I realise. There were many fights and tantrums along the way, because I was spoiled and ungrateful and took my father for granted. I have never really acknowledged how blessed I was to have him as a father. For being a role model of what to expect of my own husband, of how to be treated well and respected. For teaching me to advocate for myself and my own children. For teaching me there is more than one way to solve a maths equation or many of life’s other problems. And for always being there – to this day – no matter what I need or when I need it.
My father and I don’t really spend much time alone together the way my mother and I do. Perhaps that’s just the normal way of things. But that doesn’t mean he isn’t my friend. He was the first man I loved and will hold my heart long after he stopped holding my hand. And, he is one of my son’s best friends and favourite people. He took him camping, took him on the train to teach him how to get to TAFE, takes him for driving lessons. (And basically walked him all the way from Australia to the UK as previously mentioned!) He also takes good care of my mother, and my brother and his family. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for any of us!
Dad, you’re not just one of my son’s favourite people, you are one of mine too. I know everyone says their dad was the best on Father’s Day, but they’re all wrong you see, because you really are the best. Happy Father’s Day to a man who is more than just a father, more than just family, he is a friend for life. I couldn’t have asked for a better man to be my father, and I couldn’t love you more.
❤ Love,
Missy, Your BFFN (and favourite daughter, obviously! Haha)
xx
