Tres Padres: The Poppy and the Pliers

Well, Father’s Day is around the corner and I wanted to take to time to brag about my wonderful dad, awesome father-in-law, and exceptional husband. They are all great dads, and I thought it would be fun to share some cool daddy stories. Plus, I have no money and I think I’m gonna try to placate them all with ego-boosting stories. You think they’ll fall for it like it?

First up: my Dad. I mean, its only appropriate since without him I wouldn’t be here. Literally.

My Dad could beat up your Dad. I remember saying those words to Becky Goodell when I was four years old and subsequently being escorted home by Mrs. Goodell. It was quite an embarrassing scenario for me, but I stood by my word. Now, I realize that my Dad would never beat up Mr. Goodell, nor would I want him to. But Dad is a pretty tough guy—if you’ve had the honor of seeing his pectoral dance (yes, like the brother in 50 First Dates but not as gay) you would understand that he’s very studly.

I’ll never understand what its like to be a dad. But I do know what its like to be a parent, and I have felt the agony of seeing my child in pain and wanting to fix it. My Dad has witnessed all sorts of medical emergencies since he and my Mom seem to breed clutzes. Seriously, there seemed to be a monthly trip to the emergency room all through my years of growing up. One of my favorite stories as a kid is The Poppy and the Pliers. Yes, I named this event as soon as it happened, because at age seven, I knew I’d become an obsessive blogger.

I was climbing up a hill–across the street from our house. I never wore shoes (I was quite a hoodlum–a trait that has obviously passed to Coco) and I was balancing my body on the little cracks and rocks jutting out of the dirt. I was trying to steal a bunch of poppies–an illegal act, but nonetheless kind of sweet since I was picking them for my Mom.

 Anyways, Mother Nature reached out a chastising hand and pushed a small boulder down upon my grubby, thieving fingers. I was wearing a gold ring (a very special one from Aunt Karee) and the rock flattened the ring into a dangerous and impossible grip. I screamed. A lot. And that was something I did a lot anyway growing up with Nate and Joe as brothers, but fortunately Dad had the good sense to come running across the street and find me.

 He rescued me.

We flew up the hill, down the driveway, and into the garage where he grabbed his pliers. Then he took me to the sink and turned the cold water on and started manipulating the gold. He had to break the ring to get it off, and even at seven I knew that it was totally necessary since my finger was by this time an ugly shade of blue.

That story has always stuck with me and I’ve never wanted to pick poppies again.

Studly Dad, huh? How about you? Is your dad a badass?