Danger Pants: A small mix breed of seven pounds, rescued from the streets, and, on occasion, maddeningly loud. Freshly groomed with frilly pink bows adorning each ear. She is adorable.
Today her name is Danger Pants.
The giver of such a name?
My Dad.
The man who takes the mornings and makes them smell like bacon
The man who's rarely there, even when he's sitting next to you.
The man who has more miles on him than the earth.
The man who's always early, and weeks late.
The man who snaps at the clatter of a fork, and holds you close and quiet when the world falls down around you.
The man of cell phones, air planes and early morning hours.
The man of jokes, snark, and teases.
The twelve year-old boy that hides behind suits and locked study doors.
My Dad.
Drama Queen Extraordinaire.
Surgery scars and mismatched ears.
Big hands and crooked smiles.
My Dad.
He's keeps the word groovy alive.
He moves fast.
He lectures politics and brown eggs with pink yokes.
His humor turns him British.
His laughs are hisses of wheeze like air and cackles.
My Dad
He drives in a world of dingle berries and traffic challenged twits.
He raised two warty toads, and loved them with sideways jokes and Starbucks coffees.
My Dad
He is cuff links, polos, and the smell of travel.
He christens the dog a fluffy white sausage, and threatens to cook her up.
He doesn't believe in mistakes.
He tells you to pay attention. And puts a pizza in the oven upside.
He discusses the ethical boundaries between parents and potatoes.
He makes bets that he knows he will lose.
He yells and he laughs.
He slams and opens doors.
He doesn't listen.
He forgets.
He argues.
He attacks without warning.
My Dad.
Unpredictable, ridiculous, frustrating, hilarious and always somewhere else.
And one other thing you should know.
He's the best.
The absolute best.
Unbeatable, irreplaceable, unyielding and loved.
Loved entirely.
My Dad.
Today her name is Danger Pants.
The giver of such a name?
My Dad.
The man who takes the mornings and makes them smell like bacon
The man who's rarely there, even when he's sitting next to you.
The man who has more miles on him than the earth.
The man who's always early, and weeks late.
The man who snaps at the clatter of a fork, and holds you close and quiet when the world falls down around you.
The man of cell phones, air planes and early morning hours.
The man of jokes, snark, and teases.
The twelve year-old boy that hides behind suits and locked study doors.
My Dad.
Drama Queen Extraordinaire.
Surgery scars and mismatched ears.
Big hands and crooked smiles.
My Dad.
He's keeps the word groovy alive.
He moves fast.
He lectures politics and brown eggs with pink yokes.
His humor turns him British.
His laughs are hisses of wheeze like air and cackles.
My Dad
He drives in a world of dingle berries and traffic challenged twits.
He raised two warty toads, and loved them with sideways jokes and Starbucks coffees.
My Dad
He is cuff links, polos, and the smell of travel.
He christens the dog a fluffy white sausage, and threatens to cook her up.
He doesn't believe in mistakes.
He tells you to pay attention. And puts a pizza in the oven upside.
He discusses the ethical boundaries between parents and potatoes.
He makes bets that he knows he will lose.
He yells and he laughs.
He slams and opens doors.
He doesn't listen.
He forgets.
He argues.
He attacks without warning.
My Dad.
Unpredictable, ridiculous, frustrating, hilarious and always somewhere else.
And one other thing you should know.
He's the best.
The absolute best.
Unbeatable, irreplaceable, unyielding and loved.
Loved entirely.
My Dad.
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