This is my dad. He looks pretty much the same, minus the sneakers, plus a beer belly. He still loves those polo shirts. He still smokes his lungs out. He still parts his hair on the left and wears that same hair cut. Even though I'm 34-years-old this year, I still and will always call him daddy. When we talk on the phone, he makes sure nothing is wrong and immediately hangs up. We do not have heart to hearts, it's enough for us to know that nothing is wrong. But he'll call me back at least two more times. Every. Time. Now that I know what's coming, it makes me laugh. I just look at the phone and wait. Yes, daddy?
This is my father-in-law, who I called Daddy Charlie ONCE. I grew up thinking that I would call my father-in-law Dad or something like that. Not because I have an urge to, but because I was raised to. I still remember the day I called him that. We were at the Tara Hotel in Killybegs, Ireland, where George is from. I just blurted it out, half serious, mostly not. It felt weird and from my father-in-law's freaked out expression, it definitely came off as weird. So I stick to calling him by his name, Charlie, and we talk about the weather. Just like with my own dad, I try to get off the phone as quickly as possible.
Happy Father's Day to both my fathers. Even though we don't exactly connect on the phone, I am lucky to have two wonderful dads.
