Happy Birthday, D.W.
Back in my early New York City days, I shared a land line with my roommates. Listening to each others’ voicemails was unavoidable and my roomies used to get a kick out hearing the ones my Dad would leave for me. A thick Texas accent dripped off his tongue like honey and the message was always the same.
“Hey baby, it’s your Daddy. Just checkin’ in on ya. Hope you’re out havin’ fun somewhere.”
He is the kind of person my brother and I are both striving to be, although my sibling seems to be doing that in more obvious ways. He has adopted my father’s manner of dress and followed him down the same career path. I like to think I’ve inherited his work ethic, his easygoing attitude and a personality that strikes an even balance between serious and silly.
Today is my Dad’s birthday. It’s an age that ends in a zero, a fact he’s trying to downplay as much as possible. To that end, I’m not gonna gush about how much I love the guy who cut and styled my hair until I was 17 and amused me with his spot-on Mickey Mouse impression. I won’t embarrass him by letting him know that my lucky streak began the minute I was born his daughter. I won’t make a big deal out of how great he is at the job of being my dad.
Instead I will say simply this: