Growing up, my dad would get home from work at 7 pm. Like clockwork, we’d eat dinner while MASH was on TV and would wrap up when Three’s Company followed. While we cleared away the dishes, this would be the time when we’d present our report cards or discuss the issues du jour. And that’s usually when I’d get the dad-look. You know what I’m talking about – that steely stare over the glasses perched on the end of the nose. That look that made you shift uncomfortably and want to pull at your collar like on a cartoon. It’s an art form, mastered over years of raising five children. It didn’t matter how many times I was on the receiving end of that look (which was a lot), I dreaded it every time. Lecture is coming.

During the summer, dad would take a few weeks off work at a time. This was great when we’d take road trips through Canada or Ohio (but maybe not so much when my parents would hit those weird antique shops run by creepy old people). Overall, it was good old-fashioned family time ala Brady Bunch-style in the big station wagon where we’d fight to sit in the third bench seat that faced backwards so we could wave at the trucks and cars behind us. 

But then there were the times when we didn’t go anywhere and dad would work on projects around the house. This was when you wanted to be anywhere but home. I remember one time he gave me an old rusty can of chrome cleaner and told me to clean the chrome in the bathrooms upstairs. Um, whaaa??? Who wants to clean chrome? At 10-years-old or so, I certainly didn’t. So, I took that stupid rusty bottle and smelly old rag upstairs, sat on the toilet and thought about not cleaning for about 15 minutes or so. Then (I confess) I poured the cleaner down the drain and told my dad I ran out. Okay, so now while I’m typing this, I’m feeling a bit guilty. And when my dad eventually reads this, I may sense the look over the psychic airwaves. He’s that good, the Obi-Wan of the dad-look. I love you dad! May the look be with you, always!

Happy Father’s Day!