Let me tell you, that's not what this blog post is about.
I'm going to talk about SuperDad, mine.
I must have been six the first time a man gave me roses. And you guessed it, they were from my Daddy. I had been the narrator of Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs, even though I wanted to be Snow White. Come on, what six year old doesn't want to be a princess? But I was the only kindergartner who could read. And I was the only one who ended up in the newspaper that week. Ha!
Every Valentine's Day, my sister and I received flowers from our father -- and so did my mama. That's why roses from the average man don't impress me and that "I'm Sorry Gas Station Rose," please.
My Dad has always supported my dreams and taught me lessons when I didn't even know what was going on. I was spoiled -- but not rotten. Pops said no -- a lot. But when I was in the seventh grade and said I wanted to be a writer -- he got me an electric typewriter. Then he got me a word processor and finally, my first laptop.
Dad paid for college -- while he was recovering from a heart transplant. My mother made sure to tell me not to mess up in school because when my father was in Walter Reed Hospital, being told that he needed a heart transplant, that he was worried about sending the check for my tuition. I graduated cum laude and handed my Daddy my degree. He gave it back and said, you earned it.
I didn't know until I was in college that everyone didn't like their dad. That was a foreign concept to me. I know we all come from different backgrounds and different family types. I'm glad that my Dad has always been there for me. Always been my super hero and always will be.
|I've had this pillow since middle school.|
|My Dad in his dress blues with my brother in law and nephew.|