Tribute to my Daddy

So yesterday was my Daddy's 59th birthday. (Yep, I have old parents. That's what happens when you get adopted 12 years after the birth of their first son, and 2 years after his death).

Being adopted I always kind of struggled with the "you-aren't-my-real-parents" syndrome, especially when I was younger. But from the get-go, my dad was utterly, totally, completely my daddy (so was my mom, but we'll get to her on another occasion). I can't even begin to comprehend what it was like to deal with a newborn baby night after night after 9 years of not having one, and especially at the age he was - 39. And with the arrival of my half-sister two and a half years later, he did it all again, only this time even older.

My dad grew up in the Prairies and met my mother while dealing blackjack at a casino. They then went to live in the UK for three years in the late 60's-early 70's, getting married at one point. They spent the next number of years backpacking around Europe and the Middle East - I remember one story he told me of walking down the cobblestone streets of Prague, wearing cowboy boots; "I was walking down the street, sounding like the devil while looking like Jesus."

They came back to Canada and settled in a small farming community about 3 hours northeast of Edmonton on a small parcel of land. For the first bit, they lived in a shack while my amazing father built a log house from scratch for his growing family - Jed was born in 1975 and Jesse followed 3 years later. He turned that skill into a profitable business, along with custom cabinetry and other various woodworking and stone-masonry projects.

In 1984, his oldest, Jed, was diagnosed with leukemia. In 1985, Jed passed away. I know I won't ever even begin to comprehend the pain and loss felt after the death of a child, but I thank my lucky stars every day that my dad was open to welcoming more children into his heart and life. I arrived 2 years later (incidentally, my birthday is 2 days before Jed's) by private adoption. And my sister arrived 2 and a half years later - my birthmother had gotten pregnant again and my parents felt that siblings should be raised together, so when my BM asked them to adopt again, they said yes.

When I was little, Daddy used to "Roar" in my face like a lion. And I used to get scared and state quite firmly "GO 'WAY LION!!!" Except, in toddler-speak, it came out more like "GO 'WAY LY-ION!!!" To this day it's our little father-daughter inside joke and one of my favourite family stories.

For the first 6 years of my life, I lived in the log cabin my dad had lovingly built. Dad had taken a job with the government by then, so the following years were spent moving steadily west, until we settled in Nanaimo, on Vancouver Island, when I was 8. We lived in an amazingly beautiful house, 10 minutes away from the beach and set on .08 of an acre, with a highly developed backyard with many mature fruit trees and the like. My dad put his talent and skill to work again and built beautiful stone steps and border underneath the grape arbour. I used to daydream as a little girl that I would get married standing on those stone steps.

Growing up, my dad did the laundry. and the nightly cooking. and the cleaning. and everything else that, are, traditionally considered the "woman's role". I'm afraid that he spoiled me for any future boyfriends - any guy who can't pull his weight in household chores doesn't get to date this girl.

When I was 13, my parents separated and my mom moved us out East to be closer to her family. My sister changed her last name to my mother's maiden name, but I kept mine. In fact, I'm thinking of passing it down to my children somehow. Dad became a 'summer-father' and I treasured those times beyond measure. I missed the scenery and lifestyle of the West Coast so much, but more importantly, I missed my Dad. Completely. Totally. Achingly.

I admit freely that I'm a complete Daddy's girl. We just "get" each other in a way no one else in the family does. We share the same sense of twisted, jaded humour. He's been my sounding board on important life questions when I couldn't (can't) go to my mom. When I moved out at age 17 and didn't speak to my mother for months, he was always there, just a phone call away, for me to pour my heart out to about anything. Sometimes I called daily. He even made it out East to visit me before my mom did. He is still the only man in my life to buy me flowers, the only man whom I know loves me unconditionally, and the only one who has captured my heart so completely.

So here's to you, Dad. I love you. So much. Thank you for allowing me to become part of your family. I couldn't have asked for a better father. Happy 59th Birthday.