I’m pretty sure I’ve felt this way about my dad for more or less my entire life. I couldn’t tell you why, other than the fact that he’s my dad, because he’s a pretty normal guy. Sure, he can make me laugh until actual food shoots out of my nose, but that’s a conversation for another time.
Instead, I offer you Exhibit A on why my dad kicks ass. (And for anyone keeping score, my mom is also kick-ass and a hero. More on her later.)
The summer between third and fourth grade, we moved from New Jersey to Florida. I had to ride the bus to school for the first time ever. To say I was very nervous does not accurately reflect the anxiety I was feeling. None of the kids in my new neighborhood were in my grade, so I was basically on my own.
I desperately wanted my parents to drive me to school. They wouldn’t, saying that I needed to know which bus to get on to come home, and no, they would not pick me up from school, either. My parents were big believers in making their kids self-sufficient at an early age.
So off I went. I managed to survive the bus stop and the ride to school. But I had no idea what kind of mayhem I still had to face. To my eight-year-old eyes, what I encountered when I got off the bus was sheer madness.
There were kids everywhere.
And I don’t mean in a playground kind of way. There were kindergartners getting off the bus in tears, kids from various grades running around, teachers with silly homemade hats; complete lunacy. The walk from the bus drop-off to the main courtyard got more and more chaotic with every step.
It only took about three minutes in the courtyard to confirm that navigating this new world was an enigma. I had figured out that the kindergartners had people looking out for them all over the place and that they were getting escorted to their classes. The teachers with the dopey hats actually had their class rosters printed on them. It was difficult to read them as the teachers were constantly moving up and down to talk to students. My first lesson of the fourth grade: speed reading.
The first and second graders each had a corner of the courtyard. Naturally, I checked the other two corners and couldn’t find a spot for fourth graders. I was nervous and about a hair away from losing the thin grip I had on my composure. I was turning around to look for another spot for fourth graders, and who do I see walking through the forest of three-foot fiends?
My dad.
I think that was the happiest I had ever been to see him in all of my eight years. I’m pretty sure he watched the desperation on my face turn to pure joy when I saw him. He gave me a big smile.
I filled him in on the situation: this place was nonsensical, and none of these grown-ups were my teacher – not even the ones with the kind faces. Crushing.
Dad took in the scene, along with my notes, and made a command decision: we were going to the administration office. Exactly how I made it from the office to my classroom escapes me. I just remember that my dad got me there. And that made my day.
