We all look for approval from the people who are important to us. Some of us look for approval from our teachers, striving for the perfect paper to show them that we have what it takes. Some of us look for approval from our bosses, hoping to get that promotion or a raise when we show them that we so rightly deserve it. Some of us look for approval from our friends, hoping that they really do like us and want to be around us, really think we're funny or interesting or just a stable shoulder to cry on when they need it most. We all want to feel like we're worth something to someone sometimes.
Like a lot of people, I was always seeking approval from my parents. I was always doing my best to get good grades, to be polite and have good manners and make them proud of me. And I know my dad was proud of me, of all his kids. If he saw you on the street or at the bookstore, he wouldn't let you go until he told you about how much Nicole liked teaching in North Carolina; or about Matt's new job in Philly,; about how Tony just passed his nursing exam; or how Steph had just made valedictorian. But no matter how many times I'd heard it from him, there was always that lingering doubt that I wasn't doing everything I could. I never made it to first base in tee-ball. I don't think I ever scored a goal in soccer. And I would never say I throw like a girl, because that would be an insult to girls.
It was clear from a very early age that my father would not be able to retire, relax, and reap in the benefits of a son who played short-stop for his beloved Yankees. Derek Jeter I am not. And I can remember a distinct moment in my young adult life where I wondered if he was ever disappointed in me for not reaching the pinnacle of physical prowess.
It was 2007, and Christmas was quickly approaching. I was at a loss for what to get my dad that year. He'd already had enough coffee mugs to fill a cafe, and I can't even remember the last time I'd seen him drink a cup of Folger's. I tried to think of things that he would like getting, things that would put a smile on his face. And I think that's how we all do it sometimes, we think in terms of things, of material items. What my dad liked most was intangible: it was getting to spend time with the people he loved, especially his family. So I presented an idea that year instead of a "thing." I came up with a book. A book filled with blank pages. A book I called, "Things I Learned About My Dad."
The goal here was for us to fill the book together, to spend time sitting down and talking about all the things I never knew about my own father. And in doing so, I was reminded of things I always knew, I re-discovered things I'd forgotten about, and I learned things that I never would have found out unless I'd taken the time to ask him. For example, when my dad was young, his goal was to be a game show host. Not a baseball star; not Joe DiMaggio. My dad wanted to be Bob Barker. He wanted to give away cash and prizes every weekday at noon on CBS. And that was when I realized that, just like me, my dad was a giant dork. Here I was thinking that he might be ashamed that I never won MVP playing for the Cosmos, and he was still regretting the fact that he never got to say the phrase, "Help control the pet population, have your pet spayed or neutered."
But in those moments, I finally heard what he'd been saying to me all those years. We all have dreams and goals, and as long as I was doing what made me happy, and I wasn't hurting anyone else by working to achieve them, my dad was always proud of me. The doctors said that in the end, Tom Wilkie was operating with about 15% of his heart. Don't always believe doctors. Tom Wilkie never operated with less than 100% of his heart.
So, Dad ... I want you to know now that I'm proud of you. A lesser man would have given up a long time ago. And I'm gonna do my best to keep making you proud of me. I love you, Dad. Thank you.
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