My Dad

When I was little, my dad was a superlative.

He was the strongest, the bravest, the most the best. No man could compete with him. He didn't just set the bar, no, my dad was the bar. He could do no wrong in my big youthful eyes.

When I became a teenager, my dad was nothing but wrong.
His expectations: wrong.
Means of discipline: wrong.
Opinions of my boyfriends: wrong.
And it was hard to understand how a man of such great stature could take such a fall. Especially to such a smart daughter like me, who was above the petty "ugh, my parents suck!" complaints of a typical teen. I, who searched for a higher understanding, could not possibly be at fault.

I'm older now. Still a teen, legally an adult, mentally going back and forth between the two.
But I understand now. I really, honestly understand; not the way I understood when I was younger, no, this is genuine understanding.

Everything my dad has done has been the result of nothing but love. My dad wants nothing but the best for us and all he expects is the same in return. I realize now I was at fault for not giving that, the most honest excuse I have being laziness. I picture him, looking at the first life he helped create, knowing statistics were against him and fighting them anyway. It seems the least I could do to show my appreciation is give everything I do my all. The man has done more than earned earned it.

My dad hurts, my dad laughs, my dad cries (don't tell him I told you that though). My dad is human.

My dad may be great, but I no longer see him as a superlative.

My dad may make mistakes, but I no longer see him as wrong.

I see him as something with, I think, much more meaning and worth than that.

I see him as mine.