THE PEANUT GALLERY: Five Simple Words

"Because if that little kid likes me, how bad could I be?" -Wreck-It Ralph

Father's Day. I don't ask for much. I don't ask for anything, actually. Anything tangible, that is. I went for a run and took three naps during the course of the day. Peanut and I watched Wreck-It Ralph, my new favorite movie. She and My Director made me breakfast. We walked the dogs and Peanut rode her bike in the park. That's all I needed. Some time to myself and some time with my ladies.

The best part of Father's Day, to me, is the homemade gifts from Peanut. In previous years, she made portraits of us. This year, however, she channeled her inner blogger and wrote about me. Here's what she wrote:

I was floored. This is what my daughter thinks of me? These are the words she chose to describe me? I was stunned to the point of asking My Director, "Does she even know me?"

Nice: This, I guess, is relative. I am nice to her. I am nice to most. But I can be very not nice at times. I can only assume I have done an excellent job of hiding faking it around her.

Calm: Huh? Me? Maybe I outwardly project calm. But she's never seen me in the control room at work. Dropping eff bombs like I'm getting paid a nickel per shot. On the inside, I am a whirlpool inside a tornado.

Kind: See "Nice" above.

Funny: Ok. Now she gets me. For example, instead of calling it "Father's Day," she mimicked me and called it "Fahz-sha's Day," like in the Austin Powers movie Goldmember:


Ticklish: Guilty as charged. But I will have you know that I am currently undefeated in tickle fights in my household. You mess with the bull you get the horns.

As amused and touched as I was by Peanut's words, I still had a difficult time believing them. Even though My Director insisted Peanut chose them herself. No coaching or coaxing from her teacher. Then I read what My Director wrote in her card to me:

Your daughter will always allow you to see yourself in the best way possible. Believe in what she sees.

Someday I hope to be half the man my daughter thinks I am.

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The Sweet Smell of Success

"Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived." -Helen Keller

Not only is Peanut NOT happy to see me when I come home from a run, she cowers with fear at my mere presence. It used to be, I'd walk through the door and ask loudly, "Who wants sweaty kisses?" And Peanut, as I'd hoped, would respond with horror. It came to a point where all I had to say was,"Sweaties!?" And she would shriek with dread. Now she's been pre-conditioned, Pavlov-style, to wail and frantically stomp her legs on the couch the moment I've turned the doorknob. I never do kiss her. Nor do I have the intention. But I wouldn't be doing my job as a dad if I were not torturing her at every opportunity.

Me hugging Peanut after a 5K race, circa 2009.
She was horrified.

I'm sure it's not just the soggy, uncomfortable, tactile sensation of wet, sweaty skin on smooth, dry skin that Peanut wants to avoid at all costs. It's also the smell. Let's face it, I can work up quite a stink after logging a few miles with the old sneakers. And Peanut's told me so. "Daddy," she says. "You can't kiss me until you shower." Fair enough. But the threat of the sweaty kiss will always loom until the day I die.

Sometimes I catch a whiff of myself and can't believe it's even possible that a man who showers twice daily, manscapes regularly, and grooms and conditions properly could produce such a stench. Not so much a stench, but a musk. An odor. A lingering scent that must be wiped out with fresh water and Dove body wash as soon as I've inhaled some fluids and a banana.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Play Ball

A couple of years ago, I bought Peanut a tee ball set. It wasn't something she asked for. I just thought it would be fun to smack the ball around the backyard, and to ingrain in her a love, or at least an appreciation, for the national pastime. (And the Yankees.) I had no intention of training her to be a baseball or softball prodigy, and then living vicariously through her. Besides, Peanut's game attire erased any delusions I may have had of her earning a sports scholarship:

3 year-old Peanut, batting in her tutu

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Family Portraits

There may be no better way to immortalize a person than to have their child draw a picture of them. Marble sculpture? Bronze bust? Oil painting? No, sir. Give my 5 year-old a box of Crayolas any day of the week and let her imagination run wild. (Besides, I'm too self-conscious to be painted or sculpted.)

Even better, Peanut is becoming quite the little artist. Unlike her dancing gene, which she obviously gets from me, this love of art comes from My Director's side. My mother-in-law was a stellar art teacher. My Director loves that artsy stuff too. Me? Admittedly, whenever Peanut asks, "Daddy, come color with me," I cringe. A pit forms in my stomach. I immediately try to think of an excuse to get out of it. It's true. I'd rather unload the dishwasher than color with my child. The best I can usually do is a house, a tree, a sun, and some stick figures.

Realizing that's cruel and contrary to everything I believe as a parent, I then try to convince her that something else would be more fun:

"C'mon, Peanut. Instead we can totally eat ice cream and jump on the bed before mommy gets home. She'll never know."

"No, daddy. I just want to color."

"Fine. Have it your way."

Whether I like it or not, Peanut loves to draw. Her favorite subject is our family. Here is the spot-on picture of My Director she recently drew for Mother's Day: 

The glasses. The earrings. The boots. Perfect.

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I Saw a Little Girl

"Parenting is a stage of life's journey where the milestones come about every fifty feet."  ~Robert Brault

Baby Peanut, almost 1 year

I saw a little girl in church today. A baby girl. Her hair was just starting to grow. She couldn't have been more than six or eight months old. I can't tell the age of babies as well as I used to. I used to be really good at it. Then again, I don't have a baby anymore. I have you, my wonderful 5 year-old who's graduating pre-K this week.

I saw a little girl in church today. She was standing in front of the congregation among a group of parishioners who were all high school and college graduates. The pastor was giving them a special blessing. She's going to Princeton in the fall. She was one of your Sunday school teachers. We see her every time we go to the bookstore, because she works there. An impressive young woman. A role model.

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The Best Dad I Know

What do you say to a man who has no idea what he means to you? What do you say to a man who means the world to you?

There is a man who is reading this right now, and he has no idea it's about him... yet. He's a dad. But he's not just any dad.

He's my friend. He's my uncle. He's my godfather.

Me and "Unc" at my 29th Smurfday Party
August 2004

He has perhaps shown me how to be a dad, in good times and in bad - the worst, in fact - more than any other dad I know. Including my own dad.

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#PayItForward: Tribute to Dads for Father's Day

Most Fridays, I will share with you a post from another blog that I find particularly moving, interesting, or funny. They will be posts that fit the DKL mold... ones I think people who read this blog would enjoy. Another blogger I follow started something similar. I also wanted to do this because someone paid it forward to me, giving me tons of new followers. So this is the least I can do...

In honor of Father's Day, I'm featuring three of my favorite dad bloggers. Over the past few weeks, they've written very powerful posts about fatherhood, being a dad, growing up, and being there. Two of these bloggers took hard looks at their dads. The other one took a hard look at himself. Enjoy:

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What I Really Want for Father's Day

"Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope." -Bill Cosby

"What do you want for Father's Day?" It's an age-old question. Ah, but to answer is to solve one of life's great riddles. I remember my dad being impossible to shop for. The man had no hobbies, no wardrobe, no discernible interests. He worked, ate, and watched television. That's it. Luckily, the DVD eventually came along and I inundated him with his favorite movies from yesteryear whenever a special occasion arose.

Unlike my dad, I'm a pretty easy guy to please. (Rawr.) Enough people have recently asked me for Father's Day gift ideas for blog posts or stories they're working on. But I can't speak for any other dad except me. And to be honest, I don't really want or need anything, which I guess makes me more like my dad than I originally thought.

Well, let's start with what not to get me:

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About Being a Dad

"Any man can be a father but it takes someone special to be a dad." -Anne Geddes

Last week was Father's Day. I didn't write a traditional post about it. Instead, I wrote one about me and my dad. I wanted to take a step back and reflect on the actual day.

Since my daughter is now four years old, Father's Day is starting to really mean something because she's old enough to be aware that there is a special day for me. And right there is where I have trouble.

While I certainly appreciate the wonderful cards (I actually choked up reading my wife's card because it was so spot on. How does she do that every time?), the gifts, the chocolate chip pancakes, the extra attention and affection, it makes me uncomfortable.

To me, every day is Father's Day because I am a dad every day. It's why I didn't mind planting some shrubs in the front yard and trimming the hedges on Father's Day. We don't get a day off. And while I truly cherish the rare opportunity to sleep in, I actually look forward to waking up early with my daughter on the weekends... most of the time. I work twelve hours a day, including commute. I get to see her for three hours a night during the week... maximum. And those hours are usually jam-packed with obligations like dinner, potty, teeth brushing and bath time.

Don't get me wrong, I find sleep to be a wonderful thing. We used to get along swimmingly. There was a period of time where we were best buds. Now? While I sleep well, I just don't sleep a lot. Fine.

There is something inherently magical about sipping a cup of coffee while sitting on the couch in her play room. She is immersed in her Calico Critters, asking you to help her dress them. Then surprising her by saying "Let's go to Dunkin' Donuts" because it's 7:30am and you've already been awake for an hour and don't know what else to do. And no, you don't have to change out of your Dora nightgown first.

Sure, I teach her the rules and the manners and the traditions and I discipline her and protect her. But I love having fun with her the most.

How she sees me
(apparently with one mutton chop)

What does my daughter think being a dad is all about? Well, she knows I am her ultimate playmate, I'm the guy she can knock around and - for the most part - get away with it. She knows that when I'm serious, she's in trouble.

She even knows what I wear to work. One morning recently I went into her room to kiss her goodbye and she was already awake. So I pounced on the unique opportunity to spend a little time with her. She asked me why I wasn't wearing a tie. And thus began our introductory lesson to casual Friday.

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Living Proof (on Father's Day)

"They are not gone who live in the hearts they left behind." - Native American Proverb


The other night I was on the phone with my eldest sister (I'm sure she'll appreciate that description). We were talking about being parents. I enjoy these discussions with her because I think she and my brother-in-law do an amazing job, are role models even. And even though my sister is eleven years older than I am (another fact she may have preferred I not share), the fact that we're both parents is something we have in common. Not to mention, her children are aged 12-19, giving me and my wife a sneak preview of what's possibly to come (it's a little frightening).

Anyway, we were talking and I made a reference to our parents... plural... and she corrected me. So I said, "I don't refer to Daddy in the past tense because he's still my father even though he's dead."

We never stop being parents. Even when they're grown up and out of the house. Even when we're gone. He'll always be my dad. I'll always be her dad.

And that's what I'd like to talk about this Father's Day. My dad has been gone for more than eight years, but he is still a big part of my life. He lives in my heart and in my mind and in my stories about him. He lives every time my daughter says his name, since every time she says his name it's like she is saying it for the first time. Every time she sees a picture of him and recognizes him and identifies him. Every time she asks about him. Magic.


Everything I do as a father I do because of what he did. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Directly or indirectly. He lives through me and my actions as a son and a husband. And as a dad.


He's the one who taught me the importance of a hard day's work. He's the one I told one hot summer afternoon as we were digging and toiling inside a gigantic hole in someone's backyard... a hole that would eventually become a swimming pool... that while I am certainly capable of working in the field with him, I'm more suited for the store. "Dad," I said honestly, "I don't like getting my hands dirty, literally."

He agreed... because he didn't want the same life for me. So I worked in the store from that day on until the day it closed. I developed invaluable communication skills that I still use professionally today. He lives every day when I'm at work.

He lives in me through the things I say to my daughter... because of the things he didn't say. Well, that's not quite fair... maybe he did say them and I don't remember. Maybe he wanted to say them and thought he had more time. Things like "I'm proud of you," "you're so smart," "you're so beautiful." I say these things when I feel them because I want my daughter to feel them and to know them. My dad was a father in a different time when men were not overly affectionate to their sons. Besides, when we were growing up his primary role was of enforcer. He was intimidating.

A daily reminder

When I try to be like that my daughter says things like, "I don't like your face, daddy" if, for instance, I'm looking at her sternly.

He lives in the frame on the bureau in our bedroom... in pictures of the two of us, one from a childhood vacation to Puerto Rico, one from outside the tuxedo shop the day before my wedding. He lives in a keepsake box next to that frame. A box where I store cufflinks, and the watches I don't wear anymore. One of those watches is his (See? No past tense).

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One Fine Day

It's a simple statement, and it carries a simple sentiment. It's comprised of just three words, takes less than two seconds to say.

Not until they applied to me, not until someone directed those three words to me, did I truly appreciate how much they meant. From Friday through Sunday, everyone from co-workers to close friends, from people passing by in the park to the people who are nearest and dearest to me, wished me these three words.

"Happy Father's Day."

Every time, even if I shrugged them off with a quick "thanks," these three words sent a flurry of memories surging through my mind. In turn, those images from my brief tenure as a dad would make me smile on the inside, sometimes on the outside. Occasionally, I'd get chills. We've all said or heard those three words thousands of times. They now carry a whole new meaning to me:.

She wore her great-grandmother's dress

My first Father's Day was unique, in that it was also the day of my daughter's Baptism. I couldn't have dreamed of a better way to spend it, a better person to whom to defer the spotlight. I don't find the need to make Father's Day a 24-hour homage to me as a parent. I'm just doing what comes naturally, just being me. My father never required that kind of unnecessary attention. After all, my daughter is the reason this day forever carries an added significance in my life. So let her have all of the glory.

I enjoyed the simple things: my wife graciously did most of the straightening up after our guests left. She allowed me to take my daily 15-minute power nap without argument. She didn't even haggle for a second when I asked if it would be alright if we watched the Yankees at night. Not a single, "What else is on?" She's the best. I can't say it enough.

She also played along for the past month with my childish fascination with the greatest fun fact that we learned during Christening class. Did you know that any Catholic can perform a baptism? How cool is that? All you need is some water and a sign of the cross. I'm surprised there isn't a free-for-all of transformations occurring in public more often.

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