I have no idea where this post is going, so bear with me.
My father died 7 years ago yesterday. My daughter’s 7th birthday is tomorrow. Today is the day every year that I contemplate how that all bounces through my head. Today has me thinking of birthdays growing up and I remembered the worst gift I ever got. I was around 18 and it was a huge item wrapped in newspaper. (all of our gifts were always wrapped in newspaper- you could tell how far in advance something was wrapped). I thought is might be a new driver, or maybe a set of irons.
Nope. It was a weed wacker. You know, for actually WORKING IN THE YARD.
I was pissed. I whined and moaned and sulked and wondered why I had such an awful life. Boy was I wrong.
It was a joke. There was another, actual gift.
Here’s what’s funny: I don’t remember what the actual present was- I only remember the weedwacker.
My daughter and father are inextricably bound for me in many ways. I wish they had met. They share some mannerisms; both sneeze at least 4-5 times every time they sneeze. And Josie opens every present just like my Dad; with a genuine, joyful enthusiasm, whatever the gift. Something to emulate for sure.