Today, several savvy dads share sanity secrets (say that five times fast!)
We found these as “Dad’s Best Advice” posts on Etsy.
Short. Sweet. Fun. Light.
Rapid fire tidbits of wisdom. Ready, set…
On occasion, we share a story that cuts deep, so deep that the customary “life lesson” seems extraneous. A story that confounds the traditional paradigm of what a father should be, and reveals the boundless potential of what a father can be.
In the words of Summer Puente…
“This is my dad. With him is my eldest sister, Sonny.”
“Thomas and Sonny eat dinner in the big chair and fall asleep together every night.”
“She’s got the cognitive ability of a two or three year old, with limited speech and mobility and function. Like a baby, trapped within the temperament of a toddler and in the body of a young woman.”
One day my grandfather taught me a valuable lesson about life.
My grandfather was a house painter. In his lifetime he must have painted hundreds of houses inside and out. He was a happy, outgoing man who made friends easily. It wasn’t hard to tell that he loved his work as well as his life. He was also an excellent painter. No one could paint a wall like grandpa. Consequently, he was always in demand.
Once, while in college, I went to help Grandpa paint a house. While working inside, I noticed how skilled he was at giving a wall a quality coat of paint so quickly. As a matter of fact, he could carry on a conversation with the homeowner, laughing all the time, while painting three walls to my one. READ MORE
When I was a little girl, my mom had to go to the hospital a few times. I don’t remember why exactly, but I do remember how things were different around the house when my dad was in charge.
He liked to cook us breakfast in the morning, and always made us try to guess “the secret ingredient” — in our eggs, our Cream of Wheat, or our pancakes. It was usually cheese, but sometimes he surprised us with something else.
And, let’s just say he allowed us do things we weren’t allowed to do when Mom was around. There is one event in particular that’s seared into my memory, for reasons that will become obvious. Here’s the way I remember it: READ MORE
The earliest memory I have of my father is one of me as a young boy holding his hand by his two last fingers as we walked together. His hands seemed so large. His fingers were all I could actually grip.
A young Tom and his dad at the zoo.
My father was a bread deliveryman. I remember the times when he would stop by the house in the early morning on those cold days when I was home from school over Christmas break. I would ride on the floor of that bread truck as he made deliveries to the stores. I don’t remember if those old trucks even had heaters. It didn’t matter. The smell and warmth from the bread that had just come from the bakery ovens would both make my mouth water and keep me warm at the same time.
In high school I became interested in athletics. My father would attend all my games. READ MORE
Nature versus nurture? Which one really makes the difference? In the case of Ohio State football coach, Urban Meyer, it’s crystal clear.
Urban grew up in Ashtabula, Ohio. His dad, Bud, was a chemical engineer. Bud was tough, strict, and extremely nonpermissive with Urban and his two sisters. B’s or better on all report cards — C’s were average… and average was failing in Bud’s eyes.
Urban Meyer
In the third grade, Urban started acting up at school. Enter Betty Stofko, Urban’s third grade teacher. Bud, strict father that he was, told Betty, “Give him a good spanking.” Betty said she couldn’t without a parent’s written permission. Bud signed a note on the spot.
“That was the end of the nonsense,” Betty said. “All I had to do was show him the note in my drawer, and he behaved.” READ MORE
When my father started talking about an old girlfriend’s cooking, my mom baked him this little number. He decided she was a keeper.
My mother prepared a formal dinner with dessert every night of the week for her husband and four children, and the six of us ate together, at the table in the dining room, Dad at one end and Mom at the other.
Old Fashioned Cream Pie
Whenever the dessert was cream pie, Dad would ask, “Did you know I married your mom because she made the best pie I ever ate?” Then he’d pause and chuckle. “Even better than Josephine’s pies,” he would add with a wink in my mom’s direction.
Then he’d retell the Marquis family story. My parents met on a blind date in Charleston, West Virginia, in the spring of 1938. She said he arrived at the door in a brown-checkered suit. His first words were, “Hi, I’m Harold Marquis. Do you want to go dancing?” READ MORE