My father, the hero. Or. A tale of two bears.

     This has been a long time coming. I have long wanted to sit and write about what my dad has meant to me. About the many ways he has been a bear in my life. My sister and I started calling my dad, the bear, when we were still young and living at home. I forget when and where we traveled to...but when we were returning home and wanted to bring gifts home for our family, we picked out a small bear figurine to bring home to our Daddykins. (Another name we like to call him.) We told him we picked the bear out for him because it is the very definition of who he is. He's a bear. Sometimes he's a teddy. And sometimes he's a grizzly.

     Everyone in our family says that we are very similar. I liked to be like him. I always sat behind him in the car. My sister sat behind my mom. I felt that somehow...even our unspoken assigned seating in the car was a testament as to who we were like. My sister was and is like my mom. Not as outspoken. Constantly giving of themselves to others. They think of themselves last. They are full of grace. They avoid confrontation. They are the peace makers in our family. I was and still am like my dad. I love that about me. I love that people say I am just like him. We are passionate people. We love to have fun. We love to be silly. We love to laugh. We also rage. We get so angry about things sometimes that it's hard to articulate exactly what we are feeling. We hate large crowds of people. We hate the heat. We like to keep the thermostat set below 70 at all times. We are the fixers in our family. If there was ever any home project that required help...well, I was Dad's girl. I remember thinking when I was very young that my help was integral in the process of doing anything. Helping build the deck. Helping fix the car. Fixing toilets. Fixing bathroom sinks. He would always explain everything to me as we were working on it. He'd tell me that the pistons were misfiring and that's why the car wasn't working. He'd explain everything that needed to be done to fix it. And I would nod and say, "Oh. I get it now. Makes sense." Which was a total lie. And he knew it. And I knew it. But it didn't matter. I was his right hand man.

      In third grade at Christian Center School, there was a project that every third grader had to complete called the, "My State Notebook." The details of the book are very fuzzy except for one. There was one page in the book entitled, "My Hero." There was three sections for this page. Each section contained a square for a picture and a little section for writing about the pictured hero. It was down to the night before the project was due, and true to form in my family--we were working on it late into the night. My mom came up with three hero pictures and a few sentences to write about each one for me...as I was a third grader and had no concept of who should be my hero. The first one was a man who I used to think highly of, yes. But now, not so much. The second is a man who I still think highly of. He is a good man, and has proved to be a family friend who has been there for our family through many an occasion. My wedding, and River's memorial service to name two. And the third hero was my dad. At the bottom of the page. I have no idea why he ended up there at the bottom. But it is something that has always stuck out in my mind. I always remember that. I think to myself, "I've got to talk to Dad about that order of hero placement in that miserable notebook." But I never have. Which is not like me. I talk about everything.

  Growing up I can remember loads of times when my dad was a teddy. I remember doing laps around our house pretending to be a train. He would do this crazy shuffle walk/run thing and make a funny noise, and Patty and I would shuffle run behind him laughing hysterically. He would pile up pillows in the middle of my parents bed, and throw us onto them. We would fall onto the pillows laughing so hard it was hard to see, and then run back to him to have him throw us again and again. And again. And he would do it until we would tire of it. He would throw us in the pool. He would do this thing where we would get really low in the water, and then he would shoot us out and up. It felt like I flew 20 feet into the air. I remember him coming home from work one night with Skipper wrapped up in his coat. I went to hug him, and I sprung backwards confused at the tiny face poking out at me. Patty ran through the house screaming, "Daddy got a puppy, Daddy got a puppy!" My mom came downstairs mumbling, "Rick, what did you do!?!" We liked to watch funny movies. We loved The Three Amigos. We would sing the songs, quote the movie, watch it over and over. We had a jello fight. My mom made jello jigglers for dessert one night, and we could all sense what was about to happen when we saw that little sparkle in my dad's eyes right before he screamed out, "FOOD FIGHT!" My mom protested adamantly so he threw her outside in the rain and locked the door. We were screaming with delight. I don't remember us helping her clean it up either. Only adds to the fun of the story. Putting up Christmas lights was another fun event at our house. We would be outside in the freezing cold "helping" my dad. "Let's put up lights around the whole tree! Let's wrap every branch with lights!" He'd do it. And Patty and I would be laughing and driving him crazy. There would be some huge knot and instead of holding the lights straight out so he could unravel it, we'd start jumping rope with it. Road trips were fun. Hours upon hours of Patty and I repeating things over and over again. Things like, "Why Mr. Joe! You've stolen my big toe! Why Mrs. Sutton! You've stolen my belly button!" "Well, pin a rose on your nose! Well, pin a hog on your dog! Well, pin a nut on your butt!" And the very scandalous, "Well, pin a pimple to your nipple!" Hours of this. Over and over. My dad would finally break, and yell out, "STOP! Just STOP TALKING!" It would be silent for a few seconds, and then I would see it in his eyes first in the rear view mirror. The smile. Then it was full on gut-busting laughter for a few minutes, and then Patty and I would pick up where we left off. "Well, pin a sty on your eye!"

     There were times he was the grizzly. Every family has those times that are not so fond to remember. Most of those times were because I was being a typical know it all teenager. Even in those times, I knew my dad loved me. I knew he loved me even though I took my shoes off and chucked them at his face one day. I knew he loved me even when I was pissed as hell he wouldn't let me hang out with whoever I wanted to hang out with. I wanted to go to parties, and pool parties, and go to the mall, and stay out as late as I wanted even on school nights. In my mind, he was from another time, and I knew better than he did. There was times when it was my fault. There were times when it was his fault. And yet, even when it was his fault, he always apologized. Wrote "I'm sorry!" notes. Took me out for ice cream. While going through my journal the other day, I came across this note from him:

Dear Christen,
     First of all, I am very proud of you and love you very much. I have not and will never be disappointed in    you, nor have I ever felt that you have let me down in any way. Never!! I am the one who needs to say sorry. It's me who's supposed to set examples for my family. It's easy to get caught up in the rush of life. I am glad I have you to show me that. It makes me stop and think about how I'm acting. Please forgive me. I love you always. Make sure you and Matt don't make any plans for Saturday night-because we're finally going to go to Sweet Water! Mmmm! Eh! (Then, there is an elaborate picture of a table with steaming food and bubbly drinks.)

     The definition of a hero is this: a person who is admired for courage or noble qualities. I could never compile a complete list of all the reasons my dad is a hero. Here are the top reasons that stand out to me:

1. When I was going from the 6th grade to the 7th grade, I was convinced that I was a dork and that I was going to get thrown into a trashcan at school. Truthfully. I was really scared that on the first day of school, some cool kid was going to look at me and determine that I needed to be thrown into a trashcan. My dad's solution--take me on a shopping spree. We went to the mall, and he bought me a brand new wardrobe. And we didn't even shop from the sales racks. (My mom always did. Funny thing is...now, I won't buy any clothing for myself unless I get a good deal on it. I only shop from the sales racks!) He bought me new clothes so that I wouldn't get thrown into a trashcan. Hero.

2. My mom is a preschool teacher. Has been for years. One of her students in the first couple of years she was teaching came from a very poor family. My mom had noticed that this student hadn't had anything but beans to eat for lunch for several days, and we talked about it at the dinner table one night. The next day, my dad took off work early and went grocery shopping for the family. Didn't tell my mom he was doing it. He showed up at the school, found the mother of the student, and asked her to come out to the parking lot. He started loading up bags and bags of groceries into her car. The mother buried her face into her hands and started crying. She asked him, "How did you know?" And he said he was glad to help. Hero.

3. While I was driving with a friend one night, I noticed that I was being followed. I tried to lose the guy, but I sped up, he sped up. I turned, he turned. He was getting really aggressive, and I didn't know what to do. So, I called my dad. He told me to come home immediately. As I pulled into the driveway, the driver of the car behind me kept driving straight into a dead end. Big mistake for him. My dad got into his truck and sped down the road so fast it was almost impossible looking. He jumped out of his truck, and started screaming at this guy who was following me. It was like 11pm, but he didn't care. He started shaking the guy's car, and the guy climbed over in the passenger seat to try and get away from him. He was saying over and over, "I'm sorry, man! I'm sorry! I didn't know she was your daughter!" We called the police. The officer that showed up was a friend. He went and talked to the guy. Said he was white as a ghost. The officer told him, "Sir, for your own safety, I wouldn't ever bother that man's daughter again." Turns out he lived in our neighborhood. We haven't seen him since. Hero.

4. My mom had placenta previa with my brother, Shane. When she was around nine months or a little before, she started bleeding one night in the bathroom. We had been watching Dr. Quinn :) and eating popcorn, when we heard her yell from the bathroom. I remember seeing my dad carry my mom down the stairs and out to the car. He carried her like he was carrying a bag of feathers. He got to Alexandria hospital in all of five minutes from our house in Franconia. I believe he saved them both. My mom and Shane. Hero.

5. I remember telling my dad that I was going to get a tattoo. He told me that if I ever got a tattoo, he would hold me down, and scrub it off with a wire brush. Well, I got a tattoo. He didn't scrub it off. I got another. He didn't scrub that one off either. But it was common knowledge that my dad hated tattoos. Fast forward to August 17, 2011. The day River was born. He came to the hospital right after I gave birth to her. I had just been given morphine so the doctor could get the placenta out without having to take me back to surgery. I was numb. I was physically and emotionally numb. I just gave birth to my daughter who was going to die. He came in. Kissed me. Walked over to my mom who was holding River. Started crying. My mom handed him River. He took her very gently, and kissed her face. He started sobbing. Started weeping. Hard. He looked up at the ceiling, and shouted, "Why?" And he sat there weeping for my daughter. It brought me out of my morphine induced numbness. Fast forward a few weeks to a Thursday night at my house. I went down to the basement to get something, and he followed me down. With tears in his eyes, he told me he had to show me first. He lifted up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo for River. I felt like crying and laughing at the same time. The man who despised tattoos, and told me that any tattoo I got would be scrubbed off...got a tattoo for River. He told me that he decided that day in the hospital to get it because he wanted her to always be with us. He wanted her to be a part of him for the rest of his life. He wanted to carry her with him forever. Hero.

     That page in the "My State Notebook," should have featured three pictures of my dad. The first should have been: My dad, the Teddy. The picture would be him and I running on the beach. I have it in my journal. It's my favorite. And I would have written about how much fun we had having jello jiggler food fights, and running around our house, and all the laughter that we have ever shared. The second would have been: My dad, the Grizzly. The picture would be us eating ice cream together on one of our, "I'm sorry," dates. I would have written about how no matter what happens, I know my dad loves me. The third would have been: My dad, the Hero. The picture would be his tattoo for River. Because that tattoo is the culmination of all the hero like acts my dad has ever done. And I would have written that Webster needs a new definition for hero. To me, the word hero is defined as, my dad.