One of my earliest vivid memories of my dad involves the 80’s and his hardcore representation of its fashion sense right down to his popped collars and his permed hair and his pastel sweatshirts prominently displaying the Guess logo–the ones my cousin Tracy used to borrow when she came to visit. Except this memory is about 2nd grade fashion and the first day of school outfit. My dad took me shopping at Oakland Mall late that summer to pick it out. He was often the one who took us clothes shopping because he, unlike many other dads, loved the mall. He also didn’t subscribe to the limitations of what was sensible attire for a second grader. There was nothing sensible about my dad’s ideas–he was creative and fun, so he skipped the piles of neatly folded Wrangler jeans and turtlenecks from JCPenney’s and took me straight to the 80’s mecca–Merry Go Round–to lay the foundation of my second grade back-to-school outfit with accessories that were hardly appropriate for a girl who didn’t yet understand the cover themes on Sweet Valley High books. But I felt so special and thought my dad was the coolest when I came home and laid out the final ensemble–a baggy yellow sweater that was loose enough to pull off my shoulder if I wanted to, a knit black skirt that could pass as “mini” and large hoop earrings that totally looked like something Madonna would wear. My mom would tone it down with the innocence of a two-braid hair-do, but I didn’t care because mini skirt.
I knew my dad was different early on. I didn’t know what made him different, but I knew he didn’t quite fit the mold of other kids’ dads at my school. I thought nothing of it though. So my dad laid in the sun in a Speedo in our backyard while we played and openly cried in front of our friends. Whatever.
He was, he is…expressive. And this, my friends, is the greatest gift my father has ever given us–the legacy of creative expression, of unfiltered sentimentality, of a freely flowing faucet of wild colors and ideas and words and emotions that yes, have embarrassed us many times, but set an example of what it looks like to freely express who you are.
My brother and sister and I spoke at his retirement party a couple years ago, and after my sister and I delivered our pre-written speeches, my brother went up to the mic to wing his, a classic move for my brother that started with a risky joke that made everyone in the room laugh. He ended by saying, “If you’ve worked with my dad, you know he’s an expressive guy. Growing up, I was often embarrassed when he’d cry during a prayer in front of my friends–like, ‘Pull it together, Dad.’ But you know what? I think it’s what I’m most proud of now, and I want to be like that–not afraid to let my emotions show or worry what people think.”
I am so proud to call my expressive father my best friend and so grateful that he’s here, healthy and vibrant and so very much a part of our lives. There is a part of me that has always believed he is invincible, tethered to life by his own vibrancy and the eternal youth that feels locked in place by the strength of our family structure–we are all here, we are life lovers, we are grateful, we are years from heartache, years from ever having to think about what it’s like to have older parents or to lose them. And I still believe that. But when my dad’s brother died two years ago, it brought the sobering truth that so many broken hearts have experienced–that we can’t hold our fathers’ hands forever. And I lose my breath at the the mere thought of what that would ever feel like because my dad’s presence is so big, so colorful, so expressive, that a world without him feels dull.
A friend of mine–my same age–lost her father this year. I heard from another friend, immediately reached out to offer my condolences, and coincidentally bumped into this friend a few days later at the grocery store. I’ll never forget what that looked like, pushing my cart around the corner, meeting eyes with her and running to hug her. No words, just tears. Her weight fell into my shoulders, and I could feel her grief through that hug, through her arms wrapped so tightly around my neck and the way her body shook against my chest as she cried. “I loved him like you love your dad,” she said. And I knew what that meant. He was her best friend.
In my gratitude for having my dad here, for getting to enjoy his presence and his lessons, his friendship and his love, I give back the expression he has taught us, committing to living loud and pouring all of my colors into the world, embracing my sensitivities and sentimentality and turning my creative faucet on full blast. And this Father’s Day, I celebrate him and that expressive spirit with some big 80’s hoop earrings, a mini skirt and a whole lot of love. I draw the line at the Speedo.
Jen Proano says
Your Dad is such a great guy. I don’t know him personally, but sometimes feel like I do because I relate so much to what he puts on Instagram. I love his perspectives on things… it would be fascinating to meet him in person. I always come away from his musings with a smile, and you all have been so fortunate to get a real daily dose of him.
Susan says
Yes!! His instagram posts bring me such joy! He is wise and the way he expresses himself through written word is a true gift!
erin says
So very well-written and BEAUTIFUL, Kelli! Thank you!
NancY says
This is really beautiful. I really miss my Dad who’s been gone 13 years. There’s such a gift in the written word from the heart. Your dad’s Father’s Day is made once he reads this. ❤️
Jenn S says
Cherish every moment with your dad. My dad died of cancer 16 years ago. (I was 26) That same week I found out I was pregnant with my first child. I miss him every single day. And wish nothing more to have him back, that he could have met his grand kids. I love hearing stories about your dad! Thank you for sharing them. xo
Tracy says
I’m crying after reading this as I’m sure your is. ❤️
J Cole says
My dad was my biggest cheerleader. I was 50 when he unexpectedly died. I still miss him every day. I would love for him to have met my grandson – the son of my only child – the granddaughter he absolutely adored. He would say, “He’s a fine chap.”
Aroha says
It makes me laugh so much when recreates your posts!
Emily says
This is the way I feel about my mom. And it’s the way my kids feel about her too. I had a distinct moment a year ago with the realization that my then 9yo daughter would know her first true heart break when my mom one day passes. I had kids on the older age so it’s likely she’ll be in high school or college. I know I will be wrecked beyond words and the idea that my girls will be broken with the loss of her takes my breathe away. When I talked to my mom about it, she so sweetly said, “that’s the flip side of the love we feel. We get this incredible love in life but we have to then feel the incredible pain of loss.” Just trying to live in the love while we have it. I know you know this.
Victoria says
Polar opposite, stiff upper lipped, rarely said “I love you” father over here. I’ve made a million excuses for him over the years but watching my husband father my daughters has shown me how truly limited he is. How very fortunate your babies are to have him too!
Karen says
Beautiful!…I too would mourn the loss of you dad! He touches many lives by his inspiring messages…
Love from Wisconsin
Karen says
Beautiful!…I too would mourn the loss of your Dad! He touches many lives by his inspiring messages…
Love from Wisconsin
Kelly says
I love this. I relate to this so much. My father is one of kind as well. He always shows up elbow to doorbell. Sends my children books and magazines in the mail. Finishes our mounds of laundry when he visits. Keeps up with Mariah Carey and all her drama to be her fiercest supporter. 🙂 First to like a post- then screen shot it and draw all over it with funny corrections and send it back to me. He loves clothes, music, and listens to all books on tape. He would embarrassed me hard as a kid with friends, but then somehow they end up laughing at the end at his craziness and I was always amazed and feel bad I was embarrassed to be fine with. I appreciate this post and your dad in the world. Hey, I even follow him on insta now! Woohoo! HFD!
Jennifer R Kirschling says
When I think of either of my parents not being around, it knocks the breath out of me. I know that someday I will have to deal with this reality but until then, I chose to bury my head in the sand and just love them and the weird, unconditionally loving way they are with my family. Great post.
Jeanie says
I don’t know your dad, but the way you write about him sure makes me love him.
Kathy o says
I lost my mom a couple of weeks ago and never could have imagined how empty I would feel. You’re so lucky to still have them. :). God bless you all! And thanks for your blog. It helps to not think about things for a few minutes of the day.
my3munchkies says
this made my eyes well up. i love my dad the very same way. the thought of him passing leaves me empty…you wrote so beautifully about your dad. enjoyed it so much.
Mariah Hatch says
I love this post! I’m a huge believer in emotion and free expression and i love the vibrancy of you dad and the vibrancy in your words. I have followed your blog and Instagram for a few years now but have never commented. I just wanted to say thank you for sharing your color with the world. Your posts make me feel like I know you and your sweet family. This one really touched me because my dad is also my hero and best friend.