My Biggest Fan

Tomorrow is Father's Day and, unfortunately, I won't be able to see my dad. I've been thinking about him a lot lately and reflecting on our relationship throughout my life.

I never realized when I was younger, just how much my dad sacrificed to raise two girls by himself. I hear about these families who have such a hard time with their kids not going to bed or not listening or not eating their food. I'm not sure if it's because it's from my own perspective and I see myself being that perfect child when I was little (yeah right), but I feel like my dad did a pretty good job with me and my sister. We got up ("Rise and shine! Up and at 'em!") and we went to school. We did our homework on Friday afternoons instead of waiting until Sunday night. We were involved in sports and music and theatre and clubs. At night, we took a shower, brushed our teeth and went to bed. There were never very many questions asked. At least not that I remember. Dad told us to, so we did it.

Yeah, there were those times, mostly in high school, that I really really did not like what my dad told me to do. It's funny because, looking back now, it really was for my own good, just like he said. Sometimes he wouldn't let us do exactly what we wanted to, but more times than not, there was a good reason behind it.

Sometimes, I think about my love of reading and I hope beyond hopes that, someday, my kids will enjoy it as much as I do. Even if it's not really the cause behind my bookishness, I always attribute that love to my dad and I reading in the rocking chair before bed when I was little. Whether it was Berenstein Bears or Budgie the Little Helicopter or Chicka Chicka Boom Boom, he was always there reading to me each night. And eventually I graduated to my own rocking chair and I was reading to him, Boxcar Children and Miss Mulligan's St. Patrick's Day Parade (or something like that...) I guess it's when I was thinking back to those days that I realized that my dad has always been my biggest fan.

My dad was the man with the video camera. He went to every Christmas program, every Spring performance, every band concert, every school festival. He even wore a white Travolta-style suit to our elementary school sock hop (and much to my dismay, the DJ with the mic had to bring him up in front to do a solo dance). He was the assistant coach on our soccer teams and he helped us sell girl scout cookies to everyone at his work. He took us on vacations to Disney and made sure that I got Pluto's autograph. He played Santa and the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and he always made sure that we listened to Danny the Elf each Christmas season. I never knew it, but I had the perfect dad.

When I decided to try track in eighth grade, my dad was supportive the entire way. He attended each of my meets and always had a water bottle at the finish line for me. When I joined cross country in high school, there was dad, at the mile mark, at the two mile mark, at the finish, cheering me on, yelling "Good job! Run!" I always thought to myself, "Run? What does it look like I'm doing?!" but it really felt good seeing him up ahead knowing that my dad was going to be there at the end, telling me how good I did, no matter what my time was.

Dad bought me t-shirts at nearly every meet. He got me shorts, that I'm actually wearing right now, that say TRACK on the butt. He bought me running shoes multiple times a year and even took me to a special running shoe store (in Oshkosh, I think) so they could measure my feet and arch and get me the perfect ones. He sat through hours-long track meets because I ran the 4x8 and the 4x4--the first and last events. He bought me running flats and new spikes and a spike wrench, so I could go just a little faster. He woke up early to drive me to Saturday morning "bagel runs" when he could have been sleeping in. He asked me about my times, my goals, how I felt. And that meant more to me than anything. That he really took an interest in it. He was so proud of me.

Since I started college, my dad has asked a few times if I've been running. After a few of my snide comments ("No, have YOU been running?") he stopped asking as much. We had a bumpy patch when I first left for college. Maybe it was just me that felt it, but I think he did too. I wanted so bad to be a "big girl" and assert my independence that I tried pushing him out of everything I was doing. I'm so thankful that he still makes the effort and gives me so much after that first year or so of my fighting to get away.

Earlier this week, when I told my dad about my potential plans to run the half-marathon, I thought he'd say, "You should really concentrate on work and school" or "You need to be careful" or "Oh, cool" or something like that. Instead, he asked questions. He wanted to know where and when it was. He asked about how I came to that decision. He wanted to know about running partners. He was the only person who actually cared when I told them about this goal. He encouraged me and made me feel like I could really do it. That meant so much to me and it was at that point that I knew that my dad always has been and always will be my biggest fan. I wish I could find a way to thank him or tell him how much he means to me.

I guess, I really shouldn't have been surprised about his support and encouragement, though. Because, looking back, I realize he's always been there for me. Standing at the finish line. Smile on his face and water bottle in his hand.