Learning to Laugh (at my Dad)

Note: I was going to post this on Father's Day, but I figured my dad would be confused if I was actually on time for something.

Let me tell you about my dad:

A few years ago, he went out and bought a bus. Like, you know, an actual yellow school bus. Why? Because he wanted too, that’s why. Stop asking questions.  

(Real answer: because he's insane).

Maybe someday Matt Damon will play him in We Bought a Bus, dedicated to ADHD-ers everywhere.

Actual footage of my dad out for a joyride

Last month, our youth group piled into that bus and rode to a nearby trampoline facility for a night of dodgeball, dunking, flipping, and bloody lips (it happens).


To my husband and me, spending a Friday night supervising 40+ slushie-fueled teenagers is fun ... yet brutally exhausting. As we drove home in that metallic microphone on wheels, I was counting down the minutes until I could lay down on the couch in stationary silence.

My dad? To him, the party was just beginning. One girl said she was hungry, so my dad—whose love language is junk food—decided to head to Dairy Queen for a late-night snack. After spending an hour waiting in line as everybody ordered their Blizzards, we finally made it home around 11, five hours after our journey had begun.

So yeah, that’s the kind of guy my dad is.

He’s also the kind of guy you call when you need to be driven to the airport at 4 am. Or when you need to borrow a car because yours is in the shop.

He’s the kind of guy who gives second, third, and fourth chances—who still thinks you’re awesome when everyone else has given up on you.

He’s the kind of guy you go to when you have a question about either basketball or the Bible (both of which, I think, were inspired by God).

He’s the kind of guy who hugs you, and calls you his little girl, and tells you that you look too cute when you dress up for a date. Okay, at least he’s the kind of guy who does that to me—I hope he doesn't do that to everyone else.

Written by Moses in conjunction with John Wooden.

Unless you hate generous, non-judgmental people, you can probably see that my dad is a pretty awesome guy.

But he also has his flaws.

Sometimes he says “yes!” to so many obligations that he overbooks himself and ends up letting somebody down.

Sometimes his ADHD is so bad that he tells you a long, in-depth story about what someone said about you—but then he can’t for the life of him remember who said it. Do you know how frustrating it is to hear a detailed explanation of how someone complimented/insulted you and then never hear who said it? My dad is like the door of a middle school bathroom stall, informing you that you’re either “hott” or lame, but not letting you know who thinks so. It’s terrible.

His forgetfulness has also led to many nights of a young, cellphone-less me waiting outside in the dark as the last person to be picked up after basketball practice.

My dad is too kind to intentionally hurt someone (except for the time he stabbed someone with a fork over a helping of roast beef. Who says men can’t be hangry?) but sometimes his thoughtlessness can drive me crazy.

Last month, I was in my classroom waiting for my 8th graders. Only two students came in.

“Where is everybody else?” I asked.

“Oh, they’re out to eat with your dad.”

I should explain that I teach at the same school as my dad—and that it’s the kind of school where it’s completely acceptable for teachers to take groups of students out for lunch. 

Most of the time, working with my dad is great; I love when he stops by my room to talk with me or when he gives me a hug as I walk down the hall. But it has also forced me to deal with my dad’s flaws not just as a father, but as a co-worker.

Thirty minutes later, the rest of my students walk into my class with boxes full of pizza and calzones. Apparently, they had been planning this all week but had never thought to tell me.

I scolded them a bit, but then told them it wasn’t really their fault. Their teacher should have known better.

“Are you mad at your dad?” one student asked.

“Yeah, I’m mad!”

“Are you gonna yell at him?”

“Let’s just say I’m going to have a nice, stern talk with him.”

My students could tell I was angry. The school year was ending in less than three weeks, and we were running out of time to create our 8th grade yearbook. I really needed the class time my dad had stolen from me.

Class ended ten minutes later, and I sat at my desk taking my rage out upon my poor computer keys. 
 

The brutal aftermath

My uncle stopped by to set up for his next class (Yes, my uncle teaches at the same school, too. We’re not a cult, I swear. Just cult-ish).

I told him what my dad had done, and my uncle just laughed.

“Wait—are you really surprised that your dad did that? You know what he’s like. But, come on, you have to admit he’s pretty awesome, too.”

After we traded some funny stories at my dad’s expense, my uncle left, and I began reflecting on the chapel service we had the day before.

The speaker focused on changing your perspective: You can either get mad or you can learn to laugh.

I realized that while my dad shouldn’t have stolen kids out of my class without telling me, it wasn’t that big of a deal. He was rewarding them for how hard they had worked to clean up the school earlier that week, so even if he was a little misguided, he had good intentions.

I’m too much of a pessimist sometimes. A lot of times. Maybe most of the time. I need to learn to let things slide, because I can’t spend my life freaking out about every tiny thing.

There are plenty of aspects of my dad that I’d like to change—I wish he’d eat more vegetables, watch less Fox News, and maybe, just maybe, pick up a book that wasn’t written by Tolkien. But ultimately, I know he’s a great guy.

Now, my dad also likes to talk tough. He routinely comes home with stories like this:

"I went in to talk to [insert name] and I said, 'No, YOU need to do this. This is YOUR job, and I'm sick and tired of it being put on other people.' I really told him off. I was ripping."

("Ripping" is his go-to word for angry).

The thing is, though, he never actually tells people off like this. He likes to brag about how he's always riled up and scary, but he's really just a big softy. 

Due to his unique combination of thick skin and a thick head, he's the least sensitive person I know. When people toss insults his way—either jokingly or bitterly—he never seems to care. The hate just rolls right off of him. He usually just smiles and says, "Come on, I can't believe you're all making sport of me!" 

Nothing bothers him.

I'm the opposite: I'm overly sensitive, care way too much about what people think of me, and make every situation out to be a way bigger deal than it actually is. Instead of taking the good with the bad, I need to learn to just take the good and leave the bad behind.

I need to be more like my dad: I need to learn to laugh and shrug and realize that not everything is a big deal. 

So Dad, thanks for working five or six jobs at a time, for coaching me through hundreds of games and practices over the years, and for driving me everywhere I needed to go, without complaining.

Thanks for instilling in me a love for the Bible, a love for basketball, and a love for working with kids.

Thank you for showing me that serving God is all that matters, and that everything else—honestly—is not that big of a deal.  


And now here's a meme in your honor:

"Better than X-ray vision"