Pappy

Imagine you have three daughters. During your 50's, two of them move out seemingly never to return both eager to start their own lives. The third is soon moving out going to college herself. You are looking forward to spending retirement years sipping margaritas, watching the Mets win every series, playing numerous rounds of golf, and relaxing in the quiet comfort of the home you have dutifully paid off most of your adult life. Now, imagine your eldest daughter gets pregnant while not married and moves home, then the other moves home to help, then the third expresses interest in Med school not so far because she wants to be home on the weekends. Your quiet retirement bubble quickly bursts as additions are put on, more money goes out, and you accept more hours at your second job. Your home becomes over run with baby paraphernalia and there are more women in the house then ever before making you frightened to step in the door and face to-do-lists longer then humanly possible. Your only solace is your grandson who hopefully will grow up to mow the lawn although unlikely because the women spoil him rotten and don't want him to get his popped collar dirty.

I am sure you can only guess who I am referring to. These past few months have been hard on my Dad. If I got pregnant under the best circumstances I am sure it would have been hard. He sticks his head in the sand when hearing daughter and sex in the same sentence. I believe he had himself convinced that we all were waiting for marriage. I blew that one up real quick. I owe him some extra debt of gratitude this fathers day, specially for not throwing me out on my ass and also for refraining from hitting Terry. Three Cheers!

Reflecting back on the years, my Dad can always be counted on for a laugh. Tickle torture is elevated to an art form with him. When I was 13 years old, he tickled me so furiously I lost my breath and actually wet my pants in Toys R Us. 13 years old. I kid you not. He took us to Bonanza's in Oyster Bay almost every Saturday to get Italian ices. He would take us to return bottles and then spend the money we got on YoHoos. Spent countless hours at Teddy Roosevelt Park running behind bicycles and then behind gangly girls on roller blades. He coached each of our softball little leagues, that itself should win him a medal. We were all terrible, except a brief stint with Rebecca as catcher. I was far more interested in gossiping with my friends on the team then catching pop-flys. Yet, he would cheer us on every game and get riled up at even the slightest improvement. When mom was away once, my stomach was hurting and I went downstairs to tell dad. Just as the words were coming out of my mouth so was about 3 gallons of projectile vomit, all over Dad and the chair he was sitting in. Honestly, I think he cursed a little but then lovingly escorted me to the bathroom covered in 8 year old vomit.

As weird as it may sound, I can't wait for Terry to come home and get covered in vomit. I am positive that Wyatt will have just as many memories made with Terry in the drivers seat. Terry has the potential to be an amazing father. I have seen it in him, his love for his family, dedication, and devotion. Wyatt is lucky to have such a strong role model to adore. Terry is blessed to have an amazing side kick that will surely become his proudest achievement. Terry's potential will be realize and for the next few months we are praying for September to come quickly. Happy Father's Day to all you Daddies out there.