I Dare You To Eat It

Some gifts turn out to be dogs.

Near our family cabin, there used to be a little cafe that had a few paintings for sale. My husband, Mike, would always comment on this one. His “third degree” is in painting so I THOUGHT he was serious about it. Hearing that the cafe was closing I phoned the owner and made a great deal for buying the painting at a reduced price. So smart. Then I rallied the troops and all the girls chipped in on this special surprise gift. When the big day came and we presented our gift to Mike, we could immediately tell that he didn’t want it. Now it hangs proudly by our back door and only because it’s the perfect size to hide a much needed wall repair that surrounds our fuse box. How romantic.

This year, our family celebrated Father’s Day early. With daughters heading off in all different directions we needed to schedule time at the end of May to celebrate our love and appreciation for Mike. Our less expensive Father’s Day gifts were letters from the heart. With permission, I’m going to share “why your daughters grew up to be so…” He is for sure the better half and these little gifts of love are just what Mike wanted. I hope it’s the start of a family tradition.

 

You might be Mike Card if…

 

You sing Soprano

 

You make thermometer debt charts

 

99% of your wardrobe is from D.I.

 

You’re the hardest working dad alive

 

You never ever complain

 

You follow your dreams and paint in the garage

 

You get glue hair

 

You’ve got jokes

 

You let your daughters make fun of you when you’re giving a talk in church

 

You let your daughters make fun of you…pretty much all the time

 

You drive a cream puff

 

You are always patient and almost never get mad

 

You are supportive, loving, and kind

 

You gave all your traits to Liz

 

You don’t put up pictures of your family in your office

 

You are the most amazing dad five girls and a mom could ever ask for!

 

 

THE MAKEOVERS

 

This morning I was thinking about fun memories of you as a father and a very specific picture came to mind. You’re sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front with feet crossed, and you’re back is propped up by the sofa you’re leaning against. Your head is tilted slightly backwards and even with your eyes closed, I can still see an expression of relaxed enjoyment mixed with profound patience.

 

All around you swarm little girls climbing, combing, brushing, and bossing as they perform their magical makeover. You look like a giant that’s washed ashore and now swarmed by the villagers. And each little girl has her own agenda. One wants to get even and sees the opportunity as a wonderful practical joke. One wants to try her hand at creating looks demonstrated only by her mother. Another wants to enjoy the artistry of color applied with dainty little brushes while the rest lacquer your hair into countless tuffs tightly anchored by eye-watering elastics of every color imaginable.

 

Not exactly a spa experience, they yell and squeal and then laugh at their handiwork. This is a very nice giant. He lets them smear his lips with the darkest of glosses and dust his cheeks with blush until they’re practically bruised. They twist his head this way and then another until his neck is going to snap and then want to oil it all off and try once again.

 

All the while, this intensely animated crew is climbing over, sitting on, jostling for the perfect position. One is discouraged that they’re not exactly achieving the look they had envisioned, one demands her turn to do the face just the way she wants, another tries to  organize the attack being in charge and shouting the orders, but the work never slows and giant sleeps on.

 

Finally, and only finally, when all the wiggles and giggles have run out, and everything imaginable has been tried, do they call for me to come and inspect their work. Only then do you open your eyes, and lean slowly forward, to gaze at your ghoulish image in the mirror. You compliment the way they have styled your do and layered your lashes with so much mascara. You seem to like your sweetheart lips and slowly turn your face side to side as each girl bubbles out the elements she claims as her own.

 

You agree, absolutely, that you do look better than before! Hysterically they laugh when you tell them your plans for wearing it all to work in the morning.

 

Putty in their hands is the phrase that comes to mind.

 

I’m glad you were a dad that was so willing to get down on their level and do what they wanted to do. You never tried to teach them about sports and even with the couple of trips to the motocross show, you allowed them to be who they were and allowed yourself to enjoy them. I think that helped our girls know that they were good enough and didn’t need to change or be something they weren’t in order to be loved by their father.

 

 

Happy Father’s Day to my partner in crime and victim of pranks.

A man who has a way with words: “ABCDEFGGGGGGHIJKLMNOPPPPPPP!!!”

the voice of an angel (cue mumbled church hymn), lungs of a manatee (“watch me hold this note”), and the most secret of weapons—“glue hair.”

He’ll patiently sit through a deluge of female feelings, than offer his much needed, practical, and seemingly simple (yet wise) male advice.

A lover of walks and light chocolate shakes. A person who believes you really are as spectacular as you pretend to be. A man of moderation who “eats to live”—not “lives to eat.” He’s a true Christian gentleman who greets his days with homemade operas and thoughtful soaks in the shower. One who believes in adventures (even those that fail) and would never crush your confidence with “I told you so’s.” He smiles through dance concerts and motocross. A Dad who relishes in the ruffles Mom sewed on our shorts, and never asks his girls to be anything but girls. He might like Bourne and Bond—but he LOVES the Nannies. More than once he’s hid dust bunnies, dirty socks, and dishes in my bed. The Friend makes him cry. He laughs in the face of global warming and is besties with Beck. “Thoughts are things.” I get my eyes, posture, and juice addiction from him—(and he gets his sense of humor from me). He’s an advocate of early bedtimes and cat naps (yet rarely has either). A quiet cheerleader who said he believes in me. A maker of money and charts. The king of nicknaming…yet hater of nic-nacs. He can survive (happily) on Campbell’s Soup and cheese toast for alarming lengths of time and believes in the magic of a Mcmuffin. A dreaming Desperado who gave up his wild-side just to be ours. The best Father anyone could ask for.

I love you Dad.

 

Bones