My Dad had a "pet name" for me. Some fathers call their daughter, "Peanut" or "Princess". For me it was, "Get over here you little pecker head!"
I knew what a "Pecker" was... so, I'm not so sure why it took me so long to figure out that he was essentially calling me a "Dick Head" for all those years.
Let me give you a little background...
My father was a buyer and seller... of things. He didn't see a dumpster as trash. It was an opportunity. Anything could be considered a business opportunity if you looked at it with the right set of glasses on.
His idea of a good time was Garage Sales on Saturday mornings, and betting people I couldn't eat a whole steak at the bar on Saturday Nights (he always won, I was little-but had quite the appetite),
Anyway, the purpose of this rant is to let you know, even if you tell your kids stories that are complete and utter LIES in order to entertain yourself, they likely will still end up okay. Hopefully.
The Time the Pope Was My Uncle
I was young, probably somewhere between 5 and 7 years old. I was spending the weekend with Dad, and The Pope (John Paul II) was in Baltimore.
My father proceeded to tell me that the Pope was my uncle. Better yet, he (The Leader of the Catholic Church) was going to stop by on his way up to Boston.
There was one caveat to this story. The only way he would come, is if I didn't tell my Mother.
So, me being the youthful deviant that I was, ran upstairs to quickly contact my Mother to tell her all the excellent and exciting news.
My Mother's response? "Are you crazy? That's the last place IN THE WORLD, The Pope would ever visit, so don't get your hopes up".
She was right. The Pope didn't show.
When Kevin was A Gladiator... and Astronaut... and ...
My Dad had an assistant, or second hand. Again, my Dad was a buyer and seller of things. He had a construction company, a second hand store, a few horses, a gym in his basement, and a Go Go Bar (a great place for a young woman to grow up in the kitchen of).
So, nevertheless, he needed some help around the house. Insert my Best Friend, Kevin.
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| This was when I was one.. I remember him a little plump-er |
He went to Six Flags with us and never made me ride those really high roller-coasters that made my stomach hurt. He also kept us company in the car, when we were driving to the half-way point to meet my Mom on a Sunday evening.
They told me that Kevin was an Astronaut, that he had walked on the moon BEFORE Neil Armstrong. I believed them.
They told me that Kevin fought in World War II, and he was a hero for the Germans. I believed them.
They told me that Kevin was on American Gladiators, and he beat Hulk Hogan. I believed that too.
They also schemed to make me believe that my Father was actually born a girl, and I would one day have a pecker of my own...
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| Dad, as a woman. Luckily, it was Halloween. |
On a side note: When my father walked me down the sandy isle at my wedding, between his tears he leaned over a whispered in my ear, "I told you that you would have a pecker of your own one day!" He was right.
The Time I Thought That Weirdly Shaped Present was Awesome
Imagine this. It's Christmas morning... around 5:00 AM. You're approximately 7 years old.
Finally! Christmas is here! You've been waiting all year for this amazing morning to come to fruition, and there are a ton of presents perfectly wrapped under the tree.
You run towards to the oddly shaped prism of a present, about this shape and size...
It's propped up to the left of the tree and up against the sliding glass door. It's the first one that catches your attention! How interesting? What could it be?
It's a poster.
Of your father.
Half naked and flexing .... and the amount of hair that he has suggests, it obviously was taken years before you were born.
Here is a picture that will prove how ridiculous this present for an 7 year old really was...
Yes, I kept it. I've got stories to tell.
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| Olivia, horrified. |
The time I turned out okay...
My Dad and his friends told me to, "go play in traffic" because I was being a normal-kid-level of annoying. I thought the bartender at The Ridge was my Uncle. I would come home after a long weekend with $100 from all the bets I won against the drunks at the bar, while my Dad was making his rounds.
I think it was good that my Mom and Dad had things going on that didn't completely revolve around entertaining me. I learned to self-entertain. It took me 27 years to perfect it - but I learned it nonetheless.
My Dad always tells the story of when he had me in the truck, out plowing all night (snow that is, they have that up there in Jersey). I was little - I had a blue Fisher Price Booster Seat (tried to Google an image to insert here, but apparently someone at Fisher Price got smart and pulled it). According to the man, I sat there all night and didn't complain, whine, or cry. I just sat there while my Dad plowed the parking lots for money.
Of course I remember it differently, but that's neither here nor there (apparently I only complained inside my mind - but for the record - it was treacherous).
Maybe that's what all kids from our generation did. By "Our" I mean LATE 80's - still not so sure about the born-in-the-90's kids (or any other generation actually, this blog is very egocentric).
Today, kids need to be entertained 24-7. Even my little princess, who I admire for being so self-entertaining, still needs a butt-load of entertainment. Entertainment that I wasn't raised to provide for her, and too young to imagine for her. (Enter Aunt Lauren - wink wink)
No one is perfect. No parent or parental coupling, is perfect (many aren't even really all that good at it).
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| Me: "Oh Dear God, Bless this Man. I'm the Only Hope He Has" |
Well, good thing I'm raising my kid instead of yours.
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