In many ways, I am a perfect blend of my parents. I look a lot like both of them, but am not the spitting image of either. Half of people swear I look just like my mom and the other half swear I look just like my dad. Either way, there is no questioning my lineage, my genetics. I got my dad’s crooked teeth and deep belly button. I have his long skinny toes and a smaller version of his nose.

And more than that, I got his love of history. I got his passion for politics, his love of the Dallas Cowboys and a low tolerance for stupid people. I think I got a refined version of his sense of humor, but I’ll admit that I love me a good terrible one-liner as much as he does.

But what I am most happy to share with my dad is my heart. He is my best cheerleader, my number 1 fan. He has been a support, a foundation of love that I needed these past few years, he has offered help with no questions asked, no expectation of anything. He has wanted me to succeed more than anything, he has wanted me to be happy, even when the road to happiness has been convoluted and not so happy itself.

A multitude of times while planning our wedding we considered eloping and skipping the formal wedding ceremony. It was a lot of work and no one seemed to be happy with our compromises, with our plans. One of the biggest reasons we decided to go through with the big ceremony was because I wanted to walk arm in arm with my dad down the aisle. I wanted him to give me away, I wanted to share that moment with him, have those memories.

And I cherish them. Like so many others I have.

When I was little, my dad used to wake me up on school days. I know that I have made no secret of the fact that I am not a morning person, and that has been true since I was a pretty little kid. I did not like to get up in the mornings and on about a million occasions, I thought my dad would lose his mind before he left for work.

Sometimes when he couldn’t get me up my mom would come in and tell me good morning, and because I was a total pill, I’d open my eyes, reach up and tell her good morning. You can only imagine how much my dad loved that. Sometimes I feel a little guilty about it, I’m sure that karma will get me when I have children of my own.

When I was 8, I broke my arm. The follow up visits with my orthopedic doctor for cast changes and x-rays were always terrifying. I never knew if it would hurt, or what they would do or what to expect. On one such appointment, they straightened my wrist out after it had been bent to let the bones set a particular way for about a month. I was terrified and I remember my dad being there, holding my other hand. And mostly I remember going for ice cream after to soothe the pain, to drown it in chocolate and peanut butter for me, a black and tan sundae for him.

I sat in the same ice cream place today for my dad’s birthday.

I don’t know if you’re reading this, I don’t know if you’ll ever see these words or see how much you mean to me. I’m sorry we got to spend so little time with you on your birthday and that we don’t visit more often. But no distance changes how much love I have for you, how grateful I am to be your daughter, to share my heart, my memories with you.

Happy birthday dad. And many more.

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