If You'll be My Bodyguard, I Can be Your Long Lost Pal.

"The father of a daughter is nothing but a high-class hostage." -Garrison Keillor 

So, seven years ago I found my dad. About this time all those years ago is when it happened.  I just like to remember it as a happy anniversary of sorts.

At a young age I realized I was different than my classmates.  For a long time I thought he was actually just dead.  I didn't know otherwise.  When I was about 11-years-old, I gussied up the courage to ask my mom about my dad.  Turns out he wasn't dead.  So, I spent the next few years of my life hating someone I'd never met.  I often thought about mean things that I would do if I ever met him.  Over time curiosity trumped the hate.  When I was in eighth grade, I wrote a letter to a man that I thought was my father.  I was excited at the thought that I had found my long lost dad.  I didn't tell my mom what I had done, so she was shocked to find a letter with the name of my dad on it when he finally wrote back.  She didn't even let me read it first.  She called me to tell me that the man I had written wasn't him.  I probably cried for a week.  I still have the letter from the guy I wrote.  It's been worn from being read and cried on about a million times, but the guy's kindness is what makes me hold onto it. 

After that disappointment, I swore I would never look for my dad again.  My grandpa promised to try everything he could if I really wanted to know.  He even offered to hire a private investigator to see if he could be tracked down based off old information.  I didn't want to know anymore, though.  That first let down was enough.  I didn't want to keep trying and ending up with sad letters telling me, "I'm sorry, sweetheart. As much as I would love to tell you I'm your father, I can't because I'm not him."  I just let it go.  I went back to feeling angry at my dad.  I didn't want anything to do with it anymore. 

I still remember the exact date, what I was wearing, what the weather was like that day, and all sorts of other trivial things about the day everything happened.  I was coming home from my best friend's birthday slumber party.  I sat down at the computer and logged into my MySpace account to see what was going on and talk about how I'd had such a great time catching up with my friends.  I looked through new comments on my page and then checked out my new messages. Everything was normal until I came across a message from a person with the MySpace default avatar.  In the subject line it just said, "Hi Coco." I figured it was spam, so I checked the little box to delete it.  For some reason, though, I decided not to just trash it. I opened it.  Inside was a message telling me how I was a beautiful girl.  I rolled my eyes at that point thinking I was right about the spam.  Then, I read on... "I don't think your mom wants you to meet me, but I think you're old enough to decide for yourself. I'm pretty sure I'm your dad."  I continued to read and then I was pissed.  It had to be a joke.  We had just spent the night before talking about how I wasn't going to know my father unless he found me.  The timing was uncanny.  It was too coincidental for me to believe it.  I slammed the computer shut feeling every kind of emotion I could all at the same time.  Then, I yelled, "Fuck this guy!"  My mom heard the commotion and was concerned, so I showed it to her.  She told me what questions to ask, and we waited.  The next day he proved that he couldn't be one of my friends playing a prank.

We talked over MySpace for a long couple of months before I finally agreed that it was time to meet my dad.  I talked to him on the phone for the first time the night before I met him.  It got passed around the room.  I got to talk to my stepmother and my dad's best friends who were there with him to celebrate and sort of support him for the next day.  I never knew that the people on the other end of that line would be such a big part of my life someday.

The next hours were a nerve wrecking rollercoaster.  It was finally time to go at about 3:00 pm the next day.  I sat with my mom at a table in a mall food court, and then this guy in a Notre Dame baseball hat approached the table.  My mom said, "There you go."  So, I stood up and reached to shake his hand, and my dad hugged me.  It was surreal.  All those times I imagined screaming at him and berating him for being this terrible person just didn't matter anymore.  This was my dad.  He was kind and funny and the kind of person I had hoped he wouldn't be, so I could keep hating him.  But he wasn't.  And he was impossible to hate.

I don't even know what we talked about.  We had Panera for dinner.  I do remember that, and he took me to Best Buy with him.  Silly, but I didn't want the day to be over.  He picked up something that he needed and bought me a charger for my iPod.  I still have it tucked away in a shoebox.  I won't let anyone touch it like it's the Holy Grail or something.  There's a napkin from Panera in the box with it.

It was a hard road at first.  I still didn't know what to do or how to act, but after some time he became "Dad" to me instead of, "Hey."  His name in my phone contacts changed from first and last name to "Daddy."  My sisters and I became inseparable, and my dad became my best friend.  I look back to the beginning and think about how I felt and it makes me kind of laugh.  I was so afraid that one day I was going to wake up, and it was all going to be this weird dream I'd had or that he was going run away and I'd never see him again.  Now, seven years later, I realize it was silly to feel that way.  He was there when all of my kids were born, and he's making up for what he missed by being there for my kids.  And, boy, do they love the stuffing out of their Papa.  That makes me the happiest person in the world.

So, there's my sappy daddy story.  If there's one thing I hope for when my kids grow up, I hope it's that they can be as close to their dad as I am to mine.  It took a long time, but he's my shoulder to cry on and the person I go to with exciting news or when I need advice.  There's nothing I'm afraid to talk to my dad about.  I really hope that my husband and our kids can have that.

To end on an awesome note, this is the song my dad and I are dancing to at my wedding reception when Mr. Streetlight gets home. We both used to wait for this video to come on MTV all day. Because Paul Simon and Chevy Chase are the bees knees, dude.

Que Sera, Sera

"Having children is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain." -Martin Mull

My kids have peaked and plateaued at this level of insanity that astounds me lately.  Spring is here!  There’s this feeling of, like, child euphoria hanging in the air across the entire city.  I go to the park and see angry little bodies being wedged into carseats with chubby little legs kicking and arms flailing about and think, “Dear God, let mine go easy when it’s our time to leave this parents’ nightmare that is the playground.”  Bedtime should be easy after hours of sweet screaming joy, right?  Negative.  Because for some reason, they think that this day was the last day ever for nice weather.  It's like the fun stuff we did is just going to disappear never to be seen again in the morning.  We must play on it forever, or it will run away!!  Sweet Jesus, I just wanna sleep, kid.  I must gather my strength for tomorrow. 

My twins stand up now.  The crawling was enough.  I mean, it was a workout, but I’m not ready for walking because walking leads to running and kids are so fast.  So, so fast.  Whose great idea was that?  It’s like some hilarious cosmic joke that they’re fast, and I’m slow.  Guess what.  Not laughing.  My legs are too short for child speed distance running.  Let me tell you, when my oldest kid runs, dude is like Forrest frigging Gump.  I don’t need that times three.  For real.  I hope for two girls that are like their mother.  That translates to running only when necessary.  Like, when you’re TPing somebody’s house in high school, and the lights turn on inside.  That’s when you run.  Then, and only then.  Or when you’re sadistic gym teacher thinks it’s brilliant to make you run the track for laps and laps and laps as part of Cardio Day once a week.  No, just no.  (Ok, it was only a mile, but still. Not cool, man.)  I have a feeling I’m not going to be lucky like that, though. 

As the months get warmer, it also seems that my two lovely daughters would like nothing more than to remove their diapers at night.  It would be fine and dandy if they were old enough to hold it.  I have gone through more laundry detergent in two weeks than I think I did in the past two months.  How do you baby-proof a diaper?  Where are the diapers from the good old days where you had to pretty much cut the damn tabs to take them off?  Screw the Velcro, Pampers!  Bring back the glue!  I might just write a sternly worded letter and request this…  Or maybe I’ll just remember to put jammie bottoms on from now on.  One or the other.  Alas, the laundry is done.  I must go.  The little people need sheets.