My Name is Mommy

Today is my Dad’s birthday. He would have been 56. He died a bit over two years ago.

It’s a strange feeling to go through a week, looking through your plans, and to know that something is coming up, but you just can’t quite figure out what. And even as you look at all that you have scheduled, you can’t help but feel that something is still missing.

And then, you’re driving down the road on the way to playgroup, you’ve already made the emergency stop to clean up vomit because your one year old has figured out that he can gag himself and puke when he’s bored, you’re running late because the keys were AWOL when you needed to be walking out the door (not that you would have been on time anyway), and you think, “Oh crap. It’s Dad’s birthday.” Not the kind of, “Oh crap, I forgot to get a birthday present and now I have to fit that into my day, too.” The kind that says, “Oh crap. How did I forget?”

It makes me sad that I didn’t remember it at all this week, and that it was almost 11am on the actual day before it came to me. And it makes me even sadder to know that a year is coming where I will forget it completely on the actual day, and might only remember sometime the following week. I’m not sure why I’ll forget, but I know I will. And that makes me sad.

My Dad was an awesome guy. Truly. And I was lucky to have him. And I don’t say that because I have all these ushy-gushy father-daughter feelings when I remember him (though I do have some).

I’m lucky because he wasn’t mine to have. He wasn’t the father I was born with, but he is the one I don’t know how I would have lived without. He came into my life when I was two. I still don’t know all the details, nor do I need to, but I know that he didn’t have to be my Dad. He chose to. And for that, I am forever grateful and honored.

I don’t know what it takes to be a stepparent. I don’t know how you come to the point where you choose to love, take care of, nurture, and provide for someone else’s kid. I don’t know how you determine to suffer through, agonize with, sacrifice for a child two other people created. I don’t know. I’m glad he did.

I’m very proud of him. He served his country for 24 years. He fought brain tumors, and all of the ravages on his body that they inflicted, for 14 years. He, with my mom, provided and cared for a family. He was present in our lives, whether at basketball games, band concerts, or homecomings from a war. He was there for us. He is all over my memories.

He wasn’t perfect. Far from it. I’m sure, during my teenage years, I could have told you precisely how far. But he was mine. My Daddy. And I am proud to be able to say it.