I wrote this post last year. It seems fitting to roll it out again, today, on Father’s Day …
My Dad made me cry this morning. By the medium of Facebook comments he told me that I looked like my Mum in a photo and that I carry her inner light. Just a wee comment, nothing major, but it made me cry … in the car, in a supermaket car park.
My Dad and I are very similar. The Husband points this out regularly, usually punctuated with a big heavy sigh. I have his dress sense, which has saved me a fortune over the years. I have his body shape; Big-Boned-Scottish meets Clumsy-Amazonian. I’m bloody great in a major crisis but virtually useless in a small scale disaster, just like my Dad.
My Dad tells hilarious stories of his childhood (the time he inadvertently burnt a train station to the ground), medical procedures (he woke up during an operation to remove half his lung) and adventures with the dog (do you remember when he washed the dog in the shower, naked?).
My Dad can sleep anywhere and at any time. He once fell asleep in a packed Irish pub in London, in a chair, mouth agape, while revellers danced and chatted around him.
My Dad is such a good Gramps. The kids adore him. They talk affectionately about the ‘REALLY HARD’ treasure hunt he did in the woods a couple of years ago – him getting up two hours before they did to go and set a trail.
My Dad has taught both kids how to swim – instead of paying a small fortune for swimming lessons he has done it all over the last four years, getting the 8 year old to the same point as her peers. The 7 year old, he reckons, ‘could swim if you dropped him off a boat in the Atlantic’.
My Dad has never eaten prawns, mushrooms or tomatoes – something I copied until I saw sense when I was about 16. It’s funny how our parents foibles rub off on us. It seems that the 7 year old, who has also inherited the Big-Boned-Scottish meets Clumsy-Amazonian, also has the bland tongue of his Gramps.
My Dad has lived in Yorkshire now for over 40 years but has kept his soft Scottish lilt. I still ask him to tell me what the thing posh people put their feet on is called. “A poooof” he replies as I quickly follow it up with “Where do Russians live?” …. *cue eye roll* and him saying “Russsshhhia” with the look a performing monkey would give after 34 years of being asked the same thing over and over.
My Dad zones out of conversations so far that ten minutes later he will have the exact conversation you have already just had.
Thank you Dad for being the most patient, laid back person I know. For teaching me to laugh in the face of adversity, not to worry about things until they happen and most of all to always keep my sense of humour.
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