Real Life...

You know, sometimes I get so involved in all this "celeb-reality" bullshit that I fail to comment on the real things that are happening in life.
So tonight, I can't sleep. Poor DH is sick, both girls are asleep... or E is and Wink is pretending to be while she texts messages her friends... and I'm checking in on all my favorite blogs. Been a busy week, have to catch up. Because I'm a dork like that. So I check in on Annie's blog http://jesusfavorite.typepad.com/jesus_favorite/ who I started reading thru Wil Wheaton's blog (which was the first one I ever read, many moons ago.) And she floors me. Now she's made me laugh several times, but this time her honesty and poignancy made me cry. Real tears. Rolling down my face. She wrote such and incredible tribute to her mom that I am humbled by it. In awe of it, I guess.
When I lost my dad, August 1, 1999, I couldn't talk about it, write about it, think about it. I was numb, steamrolled by fucking cancer. I didn't pay tribute to my dad's life in any way, but one. I lived. I started a new job, bought a house, had a baby. Told my husband and daughters every day that I loved them. Hung out with my grandma more, listened to the stories I had heard, but not listened to. Took the time to breathe deep and sip a beer. Told my mom that I loved her for the first time since high school. Reminded my step-mom that it was ok for her to keep living, like Dad would have wanted her to. Wished upon stars. Talked out loud to him. And cried alot.
But I didn't leave flowers at the cemetary. I didn't write anything about him. I didn't talk about him alot, because it made me cry. I thought that if I lived the way he would want me to, if I was strong and persevered, that would be enough.
Now, I don't regret the cemetary... in my mind, he's not there. I have taken the girls there, at their request, recently. It wasn't painful, but it wasn't healing either.
I want to be able to tell the stories, though, because Eezers is facinated with the thought of me having a Daddy in Heaven. I want to be able to show her thru words alone what an incredible, loving human being he was. But I don't have those words. I'm failing in that task. When she asks me to tell her about him, all I can say is that he was really wonderful: kind and funny and he made great pancakes. She always says 'I don't understand what that means'.
All I can do is keep trying.
So, tonight, instead of commenting on the recap episode of Grey's Anatomy or the gossip that Lindsay hooked up with Leo, I'm going to tell a story about my dad.
It was the summer before my freshman year in high school, my dad took me to the local sporting goods store. I thought he needed something... who knows. But we walked in and Dad started talking to the owner, whom he knew from playing softball (he knew everyone), about letter jackets. Now, not only was I unathletic, but I was a band geek. Bass Clarinet. Serious band geek. My dad was serious athlete dude. Big football stud, still in the top 5 for some record at his high school; drafted by the Yankees farm team to pitch. Big Athlete. And if he was ever disappointed that I have not one drop of athletic talent in my body, I never knew it. He never pushed me to try sports. Went to all my band concerts. Was supportive when I dropped band and became a Student Council geek. Whatever made me happy... that was cool with him. Bought me a letter jacket in music. An expensive letter jacket. As a freshman. I told him I didn't need it, save his money, only the juniors and seniors got those. That I wasn't good enough to get a letter yet. (But you know I wanted it. It was cool.) He told me every high school student needed a jacket for their school. School spirit. I needed one as much as anyone. I'm not sure that I appreciated the gesture at the time, but now I think that he was telling me that he was proud of who I was, no matter what I was in to. As long as I did my best, and many times when I didn't, he was proud of me. I still have the jacket, and I'll give it to my daughter as she starts high school next year. Maybe it's old enough to be considered vintage. Maybe she'll wear it and think about her grandpa. Maybe she'll just look at it and smile as it hangs in her closet. That's ok. Because what my dad taught me most of all is that it's important to be true to who you are inside, no matter what the wrapping is.
Maybe not the best story to illustrate how awesome he was, but the first to come to mind because Wink and I talked about it last night. And what I'm learning is that it doesn't matter what kind of stories I tell, it just matters that I tell them. Any and all. To remember. To honor him.