He is tall and skinny, short and round. He wears shorts and tank tops and slacks with starched shirts. He has dirt under his fingernails with sweat dripping down his forehead, and he is as clean and neat as a white sheet of paper.

He’s a mechanic, a banker, a dairy farmer and a factory worker. He knows how to change a flat tire and some spark plugs, and he knows the ins and outs of Wall Street investments.

He’s good with his hands, has the biceps of Hercules and he has trouble bending over to tie his shoes. He can run a marathon and likes to drive to the mailbox. He drives a pickup, a Lincoln Town Car and a Cobalt.

He likes pizza and beer, and pasta salad and red wine. He knows his way around the kitchen making a killer omelet, and he is challenged to find the difference between the coffeemaker and the blender.

He’s never cleaned a bathroom in his life and he’s gets upset when the shower isn’t wiped down after use.

He’s geeky with a silly sense of humor and he’s trendy, knowing all the slang. He knows how to program a computer without the slightest idea of what “protect the plate” means. He can still place a double while never knowing that stripes and plaids don’t go together.

He wears wrinkled t-shirts to his kid’s awards ceremony and wouldn’t be caught dead in anything less than a pressed dress shirt and khaki slacks at the Christmas concert. He’s got a ponytail left over from the 1960s and his barber knows he likes it “high and tight.” His face is clean-shaven everyday without fail, and he’s got a full beard.

He wears cowboy boots, tennis shoes, loafers and wing tips. He never leaves without his favorite hat and his hair is perfectly styled with the help of sculpting gel. Plaid shirts are great, tank tops are better, polos are his pick and his dresser is full of t-shirts.
He loves baseball, football, hockey and NASCAR. He can’t live without his Blackberry, laptop and Starbucks coffee.

His wife is his jewel and his kids are his heritage. He hugs his little girl one day and then steps back the next, as he watches her emotions run wild on a tirade confirming he’ll never understand the female gender. He knows his daughter needs him desperately, but struggles to know when to wrap his arms around her or give her some space.

He wants his son to make all the right choices, but has a hard time getting beyond the boy’s hormone-ravaged body and mind. He can see his son’s path and wants to make it straight and painless, but knows the boy will suffer just like he did – and will be better for it.
He wants his six-year-old to knock the ball off the tee, his 10-year-old to hit a single, his 16-year-old to hit a grand slam and his 25-year-old to move out and get a job. He wants his daughter to marry the perfect man – knowing he doesn’t exist – and his son to marry a woman who will whip him into shape.

He wants his parents to be taken care of, his wife not to worry and his kids to be happy. He wants his wife’s respect, his daughter’s love and his son’s admiration.

He has so much to share but can’t find the words. He has so much to give, but fears rejection. He has so much potential, but not enough self-confidence. He’s given it his best most of the time, but knows he falls short of his own expectations. He wishes for second chances, longs to take back misspoken words and despises the hurt he has caused.

He’s tenderhearted, yet well guarded. His heart has been broken a million times, but you’d never know it. He’s a provider, a protector, a knight in shining armor. He’s a businessman, a caregiver, a decision-maker and a rock.

Who am I writing about?  You guessed it – your dad.
Happy Father’s Day!

Readers with questions or comments for Melissa Hart may write to her in care of this publication.