A letter to my Dad

Today is my Dad's birthday. All week my Mom has been giving him letters from his children. This is one of the two from me. He's already read it, it's fair game. Besides, the world could use a little Mike Buck.

Dad,

I can't believe you're turning fifty. FIFTY is old. Just kidding. Actually you're a tiny babe in the scheme of things. Just think. You have to live your whole life over again to make it to one hundred. Raise all five of us kids again. That's right, you are only fifty years old but you have already had five children, seen them through school, sent them off to college and are watching them get married and have babes of their own.

A few weeks ago somebody broke out the home movies at Sunday dinner and they played that one from Christmas. The one where you interview all of us in Grandma's basement. We've watched it a thousand times and I remember that day very well. I was so sad when I realized you had filmed all of my siblings while I was home alone with Mom. So even though it was Christmas Eve, you walked me back down to Grandma's, just the two of us.
 
You seemed so big and strong and Dad like, but while watching that movie recently, I realized you were the same age I am now. I was stunned. How come I'm having such a hard time figuring out this parent thing? How come I feel like such a child raising a child and you were so good at it? You had four kids with one on the way. You had been working two jobs, throwing multiple parties a year and doing science projects. You were giving amazing Christmas's and summer vacations. I almost forgot to feed Phin dinner last week. We are just three and you were 6.5.
 
So I have tried to make myself a list of some of the most important things you have taught me as a parent. If I follow these things, maybe my kids will remember me as a Mom and not just a crazy girl who gave them Annie's Mac and Cheese three nights a week.

One. Television can wait.
 
I can't remember a single night where you asked us to leave you alone while you watched a sports game or any show on tv. That isn't an exaggeration. What I do remember is you coming home and saying "Let's go somewhere!" Pack everyone in the car and bar-b-q on a school night. Go explore an abandoned fort. Tie one of your children to the roof of the car because they are to little to stand on the bumper with everyone else. Break into a closed historical site. Go rock climbing. Go swimming in the river. Jump off the rocks at Lake Tahoe. Eat at a casino buffet. Take the dog for a walk in the park after dark and see the hoards of frogs. Go to the drive ins. There is always something to do and you showed us that. You can watch tv when your kids are grown and your Bernese Mountain dog runs into you going full speed on the ice. You and that torn up knee can get real acquainted with all that tv you missed.
 
Two. If there is a math problem, a six foot hole can solve it.
 
I know I'm not the first to mention this in our letters to you. It's just so Dad. Every single one of us can remember sitting around the table with you with your big brain (calculus problems for fun at work? Disgusting.) trying to teach our little brains basic math. "Listen Mel. You have a hole, six feet deep." This is where it gets murky. Add dirt? Dig deeper? Dig a parallel hole? Imagine a hole in space titled x? You made it work. All math problems can be fixed with a hole.
 
Three. Don't be afraid of public speaking.
 
We aren't shy in our family. Maybe it's because in a family of seven you have to make a little noise to be heard or maybe it's because we always had the really out going Dad everyone else wanted to be around. I remember a dinner where you made each of us stand up in front of the table and speak for five minutes on a randomly assigned topic. Ok, maybe this taught me to b.s. a little bit. Maybe this is the skill that got me through college. For years after I would practice doing this in my car while I drove.   
 
Four. Make your own spaghetti sauce.

Do I need to explain? No jars of Ragu from you. If spaghetti sauce was cooking on the stove, the first question for Mom was “Did you make this or Dad?” You. Spaghetti almost always meant you. Must be that Italian heritage.
 
Five. Read. Read as many books as you can.

This was a lesson from both you and Mom. One of my favorites. Do you remember five kids curled up on the top bunk while you read The Hobbit? Are there many other kids who looked forward to their Dad coming home because it meant an Alfred Hitchcock story or some Edgar Allen Poe? You chose the best stuff. I had nightmares over The Monkey’s Paw but I will never forget it. All of your children love books. We had so many growing up. Stacks and stacks. My home is taking on the same shape. Even my bathroom looks like a mini library thanks to your influence. I love it. I’m grateful.
 
Six. Let you children make fools of themselves. It puts hair on the chest.

Why you were always talking about chest hair to your daughters like it was a good thing is beyond me. Don’t you know we were already fighting an uphill battle with our Italian and Portuguese blood? Either way, you let us do silly things. Need an example? How about the time after I had my wisdom teeth removed. On the way home I insisted stopping by the store the boy I had a crush on worked. “Sure.” You shouldn’t have said sure. I looked like a complete crazy drooling on myself and collapsing by the pudding. You pretty much dragged me out. Laughing. I love that day.
 
Last. (on this list, but not in real life because I could go on for days) Love your family.

I never thought there was somewhere you’d rather be when you were home. Even now, if we’re at your house and you need to run to the store, you ask one of us to join you. It has always felt like your family is made up of your favorite people. We sang in the car. We sang in the house, still do. We all climbed on to your bed on weekend mornings. You dance with all of you daughters whenever there is good music. And when I say dance, you flung us around like rag dolls. I still feel bad about that girl I landed on when you flipped me in the air at Moni’s wedding a couple of years ago. She was a bridesmaid. She was not happy. Whoops.
We are a close, happy family because you made us that way.

I want my family to be the same way. I love you Dad. Happy Birthday.