I was never a daddy’s girl. For most of my childhood, I couldn’t stand my dad; mostly because he was the parent who was in charge of punishments, and I was a little hellion. It felt like the only time I saw my dad was when he was yelling at me, while my brother actually got to do fun things with him. My brother could never pick favorites between our parents; but I was incredibly outspoken about how I loved my mother way more than I loved my father.
Sometime in my teenage years, my perspective started to shift. I still clashed with my father, but I came to the realization that we fought so much because of how similar we were. We got along more often than not, and I started to understand how much pressure he was under when I was younger.
Since moving out of my parents’ house, my love and respect for my father has continued to grow. He’s often the first person I call for advice, and so far, he hasn’t steered me wrong. He’s taught me to be independent, encourages me in everything I do, and treats me like the adult I am instead of the little girl I used to be.
My father isn’t perfect. But he’s the one who made me feel like the coolest kid ever when he took me for rides on the back of his motorcycle. He’s the one who gave me my love of music and took me to see some of his favorite bands. He’s the one who helped me with math when I just couldn’t make myself understand it. He’s the one who bought me my first keyboard and surprised me with the first guitar I fell in love with. He got me my first car, and made sure I learned how to drive a stick shift. He’s made it to every performance of mine I’ve invited him to. He’s given me his terribly dark sense of humor, a dash of his personality, and a lot of solid life advice.
I’m sick of being sappy, so I’m gonna end it with this: My dad’s an asshole (another trait he gave me), but he’s also really rad and I love him. Happy father’s day.