Daddy's Girl

A Daddy’s Girl I am, and always will be. My earliest memories of my dad are the fuzzy kind, circa the mid-1980s. I remember playing with him on the jungle gym he built in the backyard of our tiny military quarters, and the day he taught me to ride my brand-new big girl bike with training wheels. We lived in Italy where his Airborne unit was located, and it didn’t take me long to figure out that the Army was a big part of our lives. We went to the drop zone to watch him float from heaven to earth in a parachute, and he taught me early on give him “head yabbas” (head butts) in lieu of kisses and shout “Airborne!” when jumping from the changing table into his arms. If he only knew how quickly he’d influence me to follow in his footsteps!

When we moved to West Point, I remember walking hand in hand with my dad to football games and telling him over and over how I wanted to be an Army Cheerleader when I grew up. One day my dad asked my brother if he wanted to go to a Sandhurst team practice (an annual military skills competition for cadets at the West Point). My brother declined, but I jumped at the chance. Using my pink-and-white-striped backpack as a rucksack, I gleefully ran along next to them as they navigated through the lake, woods, and swamp (although I was mad that my dad carried me through the swamp instead of letting me sink up to my eyeballs in mud like his cadets did).

He was always an Army man to me, but as I grew, he quietly demonstrated what it means to be a faithful and devoted husband as well. I watched him put his career on the back burner to do what was best for the family in the years my mother battled Lyme’s Disease, even moving to a dull job in PA and taking an early retirement so she could be stable. I also learned to appreciate his quiet but goofy sense of humor, and can vividly recall the trip when I learned that we were driving on the PA Turnpike, not the "turnpipe" as he'd taught us. He could easily revert back his boyish ways, and whenever we saw that mischievous grin or twinkle in his eye, we knew we were in for an adventure.

Ever the sports guy, he was my biggest fan when I started gymnastics, coaching me through the rough patches and cheering me on during endless gymnastics meets. As I moved from gymnastics to diving meets, he would stand on the pool deck in the suffocating chlorine air with the video camera to tape each and every team member’s dive. And during the hours of time spent in the car between practices and meets, he selflessly jammed out with me to my favorite radios stations and endured one too many renditions of Brittney Spears (or, has he dubbed her, “Broccoli Spears”).

Even as I became that and sullen and defiant creature known as the Teen Girl, he always knew how to reach me with the perfect combination of lighthearted humor, tough love, and a small dose of “I told you so.” It was in these years that I remember learning the most about his character. He was, and is, a stickler for honesty, and I clearly remember some rough moments when I had to answer for my actions. With my mom I knew what buttons to press, could continue to mouth off or argue my point. But oh, how I dreaded when my dad walked in my room. He didn’t have to yell or even say a word. His serious, disappointed stare could bore a hole in my heart—I would tear up in an instant, wishing I could just disappear through the floor. It just killed me to disappoint him. When the rest of my friends’ parents just signed off on their 50 required hours of chaperoned driving so they could get their license, my dad made sure to log every minute because it was "the right thing to do." No way were we cutting corners. I griped out loud plenty, but secretly respected him for it, and because of him I knew how to change the oil, as well as the flat tire on my date’s car a few weeks later (while my poor date could only sit and scratch his head in embarrassment).

And even after I left home, if the event was important, my dad was there. After a long first summer of “basic training” at West Point, he was standing there in the crowd watching me as we marched back from field training. In his excitement at the first glimpse of me, he forgot about the video camera in his hand and ran down the street trying to keep me in sight; watching the playback of the ground bouncing up and down is utterly dizzying.

A few years later he was standing there at the edge of the airfield in the middle of the night when I completed my final jump at Airborne School, having driven hours so he could present me with the first pair of Airborne wings he had earned on the same airfield 26 years earlier. 

And in the next months as the uncertainty of my future loomed—what branch of the Army I’d be in, where I’d be living—my dad was there again, driving 4 hours to West Point for ‘Branch Night’ to surprise me and simply offer support when I found out what my future in the Army entailed (only to turn around and drive the 4 hours back home that very night). 

Head Yabba!

Since then, he’s graciously walked me down the aisle and ushered me in to a new chapter of my life as a wife, mother, and as part of the ‘real’ Army. Though the Army has changed a great deal since he was in, my dad is still my sounding board, understands my frustrations, gets the endless acronyms, and supports me through it all. And I’ve realized in the past few years that the values and nobility that I thought defined our profession don’t really come from the Army, but from my dad. When I’m disappointed by things that are lacking in my organization, I realize that I expect these things because of my dad’s humble service and example. My dad’s values—his noble character, humility, and strong, quiet faith—translate to everything he does, in and out of uniform, and continue to be my inspiration in ways he’ll never even realize.

It's not lost on me how lucky I am to have such a wonderful father, and experience the love and involvement that many others never have. But my greatest joy is witnessing the similarities of my dad’s example and the interaction I see daily between Peter and our children. Every day he gives them the one thing that I cannot-- the Father they want and need. It's obvious that Marie is already quite the Daddy's Girl, and Erik is pretty smitten, too. Mommy is okay and all, but Daddy is the one they run to when we arrive home from work, the one they ask for when they wake up, the one who teaches them to throw a ball or hit the puck, the perfect human jungle gym. 

And he’s the one who reminds me how precious life is when the going gets tough, continuing to find meaningful ways to honor the lives of our babies in heaven. Peter’s sacrifice, patience, love, and understanding as a father have already influenced our kids--and me--beyond measure, and how thankful I am that their lives will be just filled with the kind of Father’s Love that I know so well. 

So thank you to these beloved men who have blessed our lives so abundantly, and Happy Father’s Day!!!