My Dad Is My Favorite Superhero

Another father’s day has come and gone, and I spent it at home in Montreal, about 10,000km away from my dad. I called him, and wished him a happy father’s day, and we had a good laugh as usual.

It got me thinking about how much I care about my father, and how little I actually get to see him. We talk about once every two weeks or so, and I see him twice a year on holidays. I dearly wish I could spend more time with him, but sometimes life gets in the way (or in our case, a couple of oceans and continents).

So last night, after he and I spoke, I wrote a short blurb about some of the funny moments I shared with him in my childhood. It turned into this post. I hope you like it.

My Dad Is A Champion Swimmer

According to my mother, I manifested asthma sometime around the age of 4. From that moment on, my breathing was laboured, my energy was low, and I had trouble doing any kind of strenuous physical activity. My mother doted on me, and made sure to take care of me whenever I got sick, so I was always in good hands.

My father had other ideas. When I was in good health, he would take me out to do all the things I wasn’t supposed to do. He taught me to swim at a super early age.

My father used to pop his head into my bedroom at 5am and wink at me, and I knew it was the signal to go swimming. We’d go down to the kitchen, and make honey and butter sandwiches, and eat them by the pool as we swam for an hour before I had to get ready for school.

I remember getting in the water with him, climbing onto his back and wrapping my arms around his neck as he would swim forwards. It was the best feeling, like I was riding a giant whale. At least, that’s what it seemed like, because I was so tiny.

He liked to brag about how long he could hold his breath underwater for, and although I had breathing problems, he encouraged me to do the same. I started off by holding my breath, and dunking my head down near the stairs to see if I could do it, as dad would swim up and down the length of the pool underwater.

Soon I was doing the same, holding my breath and doing laps, feeling free as a fish in the ocean.

My Dad Is The Best Storyteller

My father had me when he was 48 years old. When he would pick me up from school, most of my friends thought he was my grandfather.

“Nope,” I would reply proudly. “That’s my dad.”

“But he’s so old,” they would say.

It didn’t matter. Despite his age, working full time, travelling for week on a weekly basis, and having 3 other children, I spent more time with my father growing up than most of my friends spent with theirs.

He would take me to school and bring me home nearly every day. We would hang out in the evenings and play chess, and he would watch cartoons with my sister and I all the time. Or rather, he would sit with us, and fall asleep as we watched.

Every night before bed, he would tuck my sister and I in, and tell us a story. It was often something he’d recently read, and he would relate it to us as best he could. My father was a captive storyteller, and was never shy about giving us sound effects.

They weren’t crappy stories either. My dad is a huge literature buff. He would tell us the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Epic of Gilgamesh. And when those stories would end, he would invent sequels, only stopping when he couldn’t come up with any more ideas on the fly.

He would then find something new to read, and tell us an even more epic story.

My Dad Is An Explorer

My father’s love for literature is partly why I’m so well read today. You can’t listen to the adventures of Odysseus, and not want to read the Odyssey. I finished it when I was 11, thanks to him. From John Steinbeck’s The Moon is Down to Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, my father always encouraged me to read the classics.

As I got older and began reading comic books and scifi, my father took an interest in them as well. I gave him the first Sandman graphic novel when he was 73, and proceeded to buy him the entire series because he loved it so much. Around the same time, he took an interest in jazz, and would while away many afternoons reading in his comfy chair as Louie Armstrong crooned in the background.

Although my father isn’t a writer, he always wishes he was. He used to write stories they would read over the radio in his college years, and would’ve dearly loved to continue writing after he graduated. Unfortunately, he had a family to raise, and his engineering work would provide a much more stable income to us than writing.

It’s why you’ll never meet an engineer that’s more well-read than my father. In part, he’s the inspiration for my writing.

My Dad Is Hilarious

My friends always say I’m a funny guy. They find me charming, and love my positive attitude. If only they knew my dad.

I have only seen my father get angry twice in my life. The rest of the time, he radiates calm and good humor. If you’re ever in a panic, spend 5 minutes with my father and prepare to laugh your ass off.

Nearly every day spent with him is a day filled with laughter. Because of it, although he’s currently in his late seventies, I’ve always felt he was young. He’s got a knack for making the most mundane things interesting.

When I was around 9, my mother insisted on taking my sister and I to church for Easter. We really didn’t want to go. Rather than yell at us, my father said “don’t worry, I’ll make it fun.”

So we all went down to church and sat together, parents on either side of us so we couldn’t escape. As the priest droned on, my sister and I began to get twitchy, in the way bored kids always get.

My father noticed, leaned into me and said “look at that fat lady. I think she came just to eat the bread from the priest.”

Not that funny, but to an 8 year old? It was hilarious! My sister and I began giggling uncontrollably, as my dad began whispering more silly jokes to us. Eventually, we got too loud, at which point my mother turned her disapproving eyes on us.

“Hush! Or I’ll send you both outside.”

“Yes, quiet children,” replied my father, with a serious deadpan look. “We don’t want to disturb the priest.”

Which, of course, only made us giggle more. My mother turned her piercing gaze on him.

“You think I was just talking to them?” she said. “All three of you are going to be in trouble!”

But, being the fun, good natured mom she is, she couldn’t help but smile.

Who knew church could be fun?

My Dad Is My Favorite Superhero

“Baba,” my dad would tell me. “A man must always stand on his own two feet.”

He wanted me to be independent, strong, and be able to take care of myself. Yet every time I needed help, be it encouragement or an extra dollar, my dad was always there.

When I worked at the university, he encouraged me to get my Masters, and when I graduated and decided to work in television, he told me to go for it. You know that feeling you have sometimes, where you know you can do anything?

I always have that feeling, knowing dad’s got my back if I need it. In fact, I can’t think of a single moment when my father made me feel bad about myself.

When I was young and weak, he taught me to play sports that were easy, like swimming, ping pong, and billiards. When I was sick, he would watch movies with me, and bring me new books to read.

He would praise every success like I had conquered the world, and encourage me to try again when I would fail. I’ve never regretted any part of my relationship with my father, or felt like he was anything short of perfect.

You know that feeling you have when you get older, where you realize your parents are people, and flawed just like everyone else?

Not me.

My dad might not have a cape, or be able to fly, but he’ll always be my favorite superhero.

I love you dad, don’t ever change.