Dear Dad,
Today you turn 70. Seventy years old. SEVEN-FREAKIN-TY!
That number just seems incomprehensible to me - a number I’ll never have the fortune of reaching, maybe. But here you are, still getting up at 5:30 every weekday to go to work, still getting up at 5:30 almost every Saturday to go play golf (and beat the pants off your youngest) - and sleeping in on Sundays, sometimes until what? 7:00? 7:30?
You were 40 when I was born. Did it ruin a since-forgotten fantasy of traveling the world with Mom once Charles headed to college? Was I born (and borne) out of boredom? Or did you really, seriously, just want another child? Whatever the reason, forgive me for stating the obvious when I say I’m glad how it turned out.
At 40, you were once again changing diapers. All the while you presided over a household of three other sons, Mom, and both of Mom’s parents. And you lost your job and decided to go back to school. And you got your Master’s and got a new better job and played the part of Dad to perfection and I can’t remember ever seeing you upset or stressed or really angry. And now looking back I don’t know how you did it. But thank you.
At 50, you had married off your first son, dealt with two more still in college, and made damn sure I wasn’t going to sit at home on Saturdays watching cartoons while other kids were playing sports. You had grabbed me, kicking and screaming, out the door to tryouts. I hated you. It might’ve been one of the best things you ever did. I just wish I had known that then so I didn’t have to put you through that. It must’ve been embarrassing to drag a screaming brat onto the field when that brat was your own. I’m sorry. And thank you.
At 60, you had a couple grandkids to occupy your time on occasion, but now the house was emptier. I was at college, save for the period I was back at home because I couldn’t be bothered with utilizing the educational opportunity YOU paid for. I never visited enough. You and Mom would invite me out to dinner or just to hang out. I’d use stupid excuses why I couldn’t. I’ll never get those days back but you’d tell me not to worry about it. I’m sorry. And thank you.
Now you’re 70, and you’re a success in your business life, a wonderful husband, dad, and granddad, a loyal friend, a man willing to sacrifice his own time and money for someone else. In short you’re the man I wish I could be one day. But I’ll never do it all as well as you, Dad. Never. And for that I’m sorry. But thank you.
Happy Birthday,
Your Son,
David
