It's super special for us because at 62, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. It's still terminal, but we've got a much better outlook today than we did those first few days. But I don't want to talk about cancer today. I don't like cancer.
So, I'm gonna talk about my dad. I've been a Daddy's Girl my whole* life.
|3 Generations of Boswell men|
I look up to my dad. I love him to bits. He's funny. He's smart. He's kind and generous. He was strict and my friends used to think my life was so hard because my parents were such sticks-in-the-mud, until they actually came to our house for dinner or to spend the night. Then they got the whole picture--the laughter and the fun and the rules and I really wouldn't have had it any other way. I look back now and realize that their rules make perfect sense. Anyway, the point is--my husband had a lot to live up to. My dad isn't just a man's man. He grills, he builds stuff, fixes stuff, is a doctor and a colonel and spent the last 10 years of his career helping people cure cancer and AIDS. Yeah, really. He also cooks, and knows what colors look best on my mom, and what jewelry she has and what pieces would go best with new outfits. He wrote poetry on our fridge when I brought home a magnetic poetry set. He's just... wonderful. I get my red hair, my stubborn streak, my temper, my desire to help, my freckles & easily bruised skin from him. Everybody who knows me knows that I completely lucked out in the parental lottery. You don't get to choose who you're born to (Sorry Freckle), but I wouldn't choose anyone else in the whole wide world.
Happy Birthday Daddy.
*Well, there were some months as an infant... 9-18 months or so where no one but my mom could hold me, but you now, other than that...