Raise a glass for my Dad - it's his birthday

I don't remember the date my father died.

I have to go back and look at my blog once we get into July. Maybe it's because he'd been so ill for so long and his death was, while still sudden in a weird sort of way, not unexpected.

Or maybe I just prefer beginnings to endings.

He was born May 5th. I never even heard of Cinco de Mayo growing up. Partly this was because I lived in a small town in Connecticut where the closest we got to the Mexican culture was when my mother served tacos (it's unfortunate she didn't also serve margaritas because some days we all could've used one). But mainly it's because it's always been Dad's birthday.

I wish I could remember fun things we did that day. But I can't, which I guess is pretty typical when you're a kid. Nothing is bigger than your OWN birthday, right? As we got older and moved away, it usually was just a phone call.

My Dad and I didn't always have the easiest relationship. We were too much alike. Stubborn. Opinionated.

He was also hot-tempered and impatient and sometimes embarrassed the hell out of us in public by either shouting about something or joking with any stranger he met.

There were times I'd call the house and he'd answer and I'd just ask for Mom. How much that must've hurt his feelings, that one of his daughters didn't want to talk to him.

But he was so proud. Of all of us. I think he might have told me that once. He liked to brag about his daughter the lawyer, his son the computer genius, his youngest daughter the sportswriter. 

And he genuinely enjoyed kids. He would take an afternoon off from work to come watch my sister and me play basketball. He let us dive off his knee in the pool, or let us pull him around by his big toe as he floated on his back. I think there were games of Candyland when we were small.

We loved it, when he would just play.

What he never got to do is enjoy my own kids. He met Sawyer twice, once as an infant and once when he was about 18 months. My Dad talked for his remaining years about Sawyer riding in his wheelchair.

He never met Sage. He died before I was even pregnant with X. He missed out. So did my kids.

So did I.

He would've loved to have visited us, to sit in his chair and have the kids climb on him and show him their toys and just talk to him about the butterfly they saw and ask him how it is we got into the Milky Way, anyway? He could've come to watch Sawyer play Little League, Sage dance at her recital. X do his own bouncy-legged, head-bobbing boogie.

And they would've loved him, even though he was not the same man that I grew up with. He was no longer the 6-foot-4, overweight, fire-red haired larger-than-life guy with the ear-blasting cackling laugh.

No. They would've just known him as Grandpa. Who always sat. He was thin and his hair had faded (although he still had that cackle). He seemed smaller. But the child within him wasn't.

I'm angry. I think it's not fair, and didn't he love us enough to take care of himself? He quit smoking, but he was overweight. His diabetes went untreated for too long. He cheated with the chocolate bars he'd hide. One health issue led to another and another and another. There was no going back.

Unfortunately, there was no going forward, either.

Dad's gone. Grandpa's gone. 

Today is just another day for my kids. No homemade cards to send. No off-key singing on the phone.

But I remember.

Happy birthday, Dad. Happy birthday.