Stages of Life

My mom and I were shopping a couple of weeks ago and happened upon a sign that describes my father's life fairly well at the moment:

The Four Stages of Life
1. You believe in Santa
2. You don't believe in Santa
3. You are Santa
4. You look like Santa

My father gave in this past year and stopped dying his hair and mustache. He made this decision somewhere between the time we dropped Kevin off at his house and he brought her to the hospital to come meet her little brother. Having a baby I could adjust to...seeing my dad actually look like a Grandpa was another thing all together.

I think one of the hardest things about growing up is watching your parents get old. My parents and my in-laws are both dealing with health challenges that we all thought were a good 15-20 years away. Suddenly our invincible parents aren't so untouchable anymore.

When I was little, I knew my dad was superhuman. He was the strongest, smartest, funniest man I knew. He could answer any question, solve any problem, and he always had the money for ice cream (even if he didn't spring for the idea of going to get some at Casper's). I never worried that he couldn't carry me to my bedroom if I fell asleep in the car or that he wouldn't be able to help me with my homework. He was the kind of dad that saved up his PTO and I didn't figure out until I was older that Dads don't automatically get your birthday and your school breaks off work. He came to every parent teacher conference, every recital, every ball game, every awards ceremony. He spent an entire school year driving me to middle school so that I could go where my friends attended. He checked my homework assignments, edited my Sterling Scholar portfolio, gave me advice about boys (which was usually just what I needed to hear). He scared off all the high school boys and helped me register for college. When I asked him how they paid for my brother's mission, he told me that if I wanted to go, they would find a way.

And so they did. It wasn't easy.

He taught me that it is okay for diabetics to eat treats and enriched pasta.

Though they probably shouldn't have done it, he found a way to leave home at the very worst possible time and take my mom and me back to Texas, where he got to meet everyone I loved and eat the three-dollar taco plate on Taco Tuesday at Rosa's. While we were there, one of the investigators I had been working with for over a year finally got baptized (I knew all it would take were some handsome Elders asking her), and my dad spent the whole time talking to her parents in Spanish and explaining what was going on.

A week after we came home, he helped me book a plane ticket to go back a month later so I could be at the Temple Sealing of one of the people I taught.

And somewhere in there, when Scott asked for my hand, he was man enough to say okay, even though he knew there wasn't a man alive good enough for his daughter.

He's also the one who turned on the child lock when we got to the Temple on my wedding day so I couldn't get out of the backseat.

Dads have a hard time letting go.

So do daughters.

Turns out, however, that me getting married just might be the best thing that ever happened to him.

Enter: Kevin.

His #1 Fan.

In a season of my life where I realize just how human my Dad is (and I love him all the more because of this), where I see him getting old and withering and struggling to do the simple things that used to come so easily, my daughter sees the very, very best in him.

To her, he isn't sick. He isn't aging. He isn't chronically tired and in pain. He doesn't have any other responsibility in life other than being her Papa.

He is her hero,

If her sunglasses break or her colored pencils are dull, the answer is always, "Papa can fix it." If we are out of purple paint, "Papa will get me more." If she can't sleep at night, "Papa come play me?" If her dad is taking too long to get home from school and her mother just can't handle her anymore, "I call Papa?"

Her pack-pack is continually packed for Papa's house. It's better than Disneyland (where she's never been) or the Temple (which is her favorite building).

She knows, without a doubt, that he loves her. That he will do (and frequently does) anything for her, even if it means setting her in the baby exersaucer that she is two years too old for. He plays dollhouse and babies, he takes her to see the pets, he feeds her crackers and cookies and ice cream. He reads stories and sings songs and rocks her to sleep and shows her love in a thousand different ways.

A few weeks ago, I was rocking and singing Sly to sleep when Kevin peeked her head through the doorway, excitedly whisper-shouting, "Papa sing me this song!"

For a week after we brought the baby home, she kept telling me that she was "borned at Papa's house." And she wanted to go back.

It would not surprise her at all if I told her that her Papa was Santa Claus, and not just because he has a ton of white facial hair. And it's more than the fact that Papa gives her way more presents than Santa does and he loves to eat cookies.

It's because Santa embodies all things good, and she knows there is truly no better person than her Papa.

You want to know why I believe in Santa?
Because he's my dad.