Father's Day

My dad tackled a cart full of toys once. True story. It was 1983, the year I was born. Cabbage Patch Kids were the rage of that year, especially around Christmas time. If you were able to see one, not to mention get your hands on one, you were supremely lucky. Since I was the first child, my parents instinctively knew that it was there job not just to take care of me, but also to spoil me for at least the first two years of my life. With that in mind, they needed a Cabbage Patch Doll.

The dolls came in an assortment of types. You could get a baby, a toddler, or a kid. It could be a boy or girl-- brunette, blonde, or red head. Pick your ethnicity, they had it. Since they were quite certain I would grow to have dark brown hair, just like theirs, they wanted to find a little girl doll with long brown hair. Thus the quest started.

After many days of unsuccessful searching, my dad heard talk that a local toy store was getting a shipment in. With money in his pocket and hope in his heart, he set forth. As predicted, it was packed. Mothers were tackling mothers for toys that their child needed to get on Christmas. Granted, I was about a month old. I didn't know my hand from my foot. I definitely wouldn't have known if I had this prized possession or not--but that really didn't matter.

After smooth talking the sales clerks and dropping some names, my dad was secretly given the last doll in the store. It was a little baby boy, bald head, green outfit. It was far from ideal, but who was my dad to complain? He got the doll--he had it in his hand. He wanted perfection, but being idealistic when it came to popular toys was far from easy. So he concealed the toy and continued shopping.

After a good half hour or so, he approached the cash register. Just as he was about to place the toys down, he heard a squeal. When turning around, he saw an animal like stampede running to the right. Curious, he followed.

A poor, helpless clerk was ducking as parents jumped over one another to grab what was on his cart. To every shoppers shock and delight, he had just pushed out the newest shipment of Cabbage Patch Dolls--all waiting to be bought. The dolls were practically flying through the air has parents ripped them from one another's hands. Even though he already had one, my dad bravely joined the ruckus. Pushing through with everyone else, he got close. He reached out and grabbed for the first doll he could.

Her name was Samantha. She was born on November 1st (the same day I was born) and had brown eyes and brown hair, just like me.

She became my best friend. 

I like this story because it never changes. No matter how many times during long family dinners my dad tells it, it's always exactly the same. With my mom nodding in agreement, my dad boasts about his triumph over the world of consumerism. Additionally, I like this story because it gives my dad a chance to be a hero. Not necessarily a save the kids from a burning bus hero, but a victorious dad kind of hero. And I think all fathers need a story like that. 

The thing is, ever since my birth things haven't changed. No matter what I want, my dad finds ways to get it for me. I was never a spoiled child, never asking for toys that were beyond our price range, but when I had my eyes on the American Girl Doll, he found one similar, of a generic brand, that was just as beautiful. She might not have come with perfect clothes and perfect books, but I gave her my old baby clothes and read to her poems by Shel Silverstein and that was perfect enough. 

When I was accepted into Florida State University, he knew before I did, as he received an e-mail stating my admission. Coming home from a late night play rehearsal, I found the e-mail, printed out, neatly placed on my bed. Running into my parents room, my father was already wearing garnet and gold in celebration. I was the first of my family to go to college and he wanted to world to know how proud he was of me. 

As a child, I claimed my father had no weaknesses, but at 19 I learned I was wrong. My father had to be treated for incredibly high cholesterol and blood pressure levels while I was away at college. Every day my mood would depend on the results of another test or another treatment. After five years of stability, he's become increasingly stronger and in much better shape. Thanking golf and long walks, his lifestyle changed for the better. He even stopped eating pork, as I did so many years ago. 

If a flock of angry women searching for toys or a bout of medical issues can't stop my father, I'm convinced nothing can. He'll always be that father who taught me how to throw a baseball and that father who stood in the crowds screaming, "that's my daughter!" as I swung through the air on a trapeze. He's the father who read every article I had published in the newspaper and saved each copy, properly folded and placed in a box in his closet. As it turns out, though, I stand corrected. Throughout the years I believed my dad to be invincible, to have no fatal flaw. He was Superman in a world full of Clark Kents. But just as Superman has kryptonite, my dad does, in fact, have one very large weakness.

Not to sound conceited, but I think it's me.