I received your typical dad-like gifts for Father’s Day—a few shirts, some sentimental stuff the girls made at school, and a bottle of Jay-Z’s “Gold” cologne, obviously. I also, however, received a paper titled “All About Dad” that was signed by our oldest but was, as I understand, a collaborative effort between both girls during their joint occupational therapy session. Please indulge me while I break it down because it was … interesting.
My Dad’s name is: Mike.
So far, so good.
My Dad is 6 years old.
It’s all downhill from here. I should probably be more concerned about their utter inability to comprehend ages. I mean, they know how old they are, so the fact that they think I am one grade up is disconcerting. Plus, we’ve been over this. Mom is 20 and I am 25. They don’t listen.
My dad weighs: 118 pounds.
This is the most fascinating response. I have no idea where they came up with that number. Although, considering they believe 100 is the world’s highest number—“I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU FOR 100 YEARS!”—I believe this was intended to be an insult.
Dad likes to eat: veggies.
According to my daughters, I am an emaciated vegetable lover. They obviously think I am manly and look to me for protection. Happy Father’s Day?
Dad likes to wear: pants and shirts.
Also I am a yuppie. I would say they nailed this one except they answered what I am forced by society to wear as opposed to what I would truly like to wear. What I would truly like to wear everyday is two fig leafs over my nipples and a pair of Oakland Raiders Zubaz, for what it’s worth.
Dad’s best friend is: ?
This one hurt. This one hurt real bad. My wife was present during this collaborative session, but tried to remain uninvolved. Until this point, that is, not wanting me to feel ashamed and alone on a day intended to celebrate my efforts. Still, her intervening proved fruitless, and the girls couldn’t name one fellow man I hang out with, despite the fact I have at least one or two friends. According to my wife, our oldest daughter, under pressure to name someone, anyone, responded, “Bobby-Bob? … Bob?” My wife sighed and nodded her head dejectedly to the occupational therapist, that familiar body language that translates to “He doesn’t know a Bob.” Hence, the big ol’ question mark. I am sad all over again just writing about this.
Dad is really good at: paperwork.
I am the most boring, albeit practical dad ever, I guess. Maybe I’m not even practical, considering paperwork is so 1993, and everything is online now. And I suppose this answer is better than "writing about spam email on his free blog." The point is, I need to make some changes in my life.
My Dad really loves: his kids.
Despite all of the above answers, this somehow remains true.
Dad always tells me: stories.
Stories about how I grabbed a handful of veggies, threw on some pants and a shirt and a spritz of Jay-Z’s “Gold,” and headed to the office to file some TPS reports. That may not sound like a big deal, but remember—I am only 6.
Note: This column appears in the 6/26 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/27 issue of the Peoria Times.