It's the Small Things that Matter

The soft smell of cinnamon gum, the delightful droning of various NPR broadcasters, the quiet dignity of a mustache and bow tie—these characteristics are synonymous with only one man—my father.

Growing up, I knew as a child that my dad was admired and respected in our small community. Whether it was at church or school, someone always had something to say about his humor, charisma, or passion. Now, it’s my turn.

There are numerous memories that might not mean much to some, but mean the world to me. I truly believe that it’s the small things that count, and here are a few of those “small” things that I remember from my childhood.

I remember when my dad would vacuum, he would place the ottoman on top of the chair—which created a perfect hiding place for me. I would crawl in the open space and hide from the world, and create a new one for myself. I loved that…in fact, there have been several times in my adult life in which I needed to crawl into that covert…if only I could fit!

Although the father of three girls, my dad never missed out on the sports, rough-housing, or other traditions that involves rearing boys. In fact, the most predominate memory with my dad has to be “Wild Rumpus!” This game involved my younger sister and I pummeling my dad while yelling a shrilling “Let the Wild Rumpus Begin!” (taken from the book he would read to us, Where the Wild Things Are. See? Everything good comes from books J). We would then commence in a “battle royale” until we were all too tired to move. Needless to say, my sister and I loved it.

The memories could go on and on—pizza on Fridays, pancakes on Saturdays, bike rides, car rides, camping—but there is one constant that ties them all together. My father loved us. That is something I always felt growing up, and I think that if you accomplished that as a parent, you have succeeded.

Thank you, Dad, for everything. For raising me, for inspiring me, for loving me. Happy Father’s Day—you’re the best.