Love isn’t what you say, it’s what you do. My dad is not the most expressive person – he won’t be the parent who calls me every night so I can prattle on about all my doings, but he will be the person who asks my mom about those said doings on a daily basis without fail, and is always updated on all my activities, mundane or otherwise. My dad has more interesting ways of showing how much he cares.
When I was about seven, my baby teeth started falling out. I was exceptionally proud of this fact, because I was the first kid in my class to start losing my baby teeth and getting my permanent ones. Those were also the days when kids used to excitedly show off their new erasers, pencils, pencil boxes and assorted paraphernalia in school. I was quite keen to start a new trend by showing off my teeth – not just the resulting gap in my mouth, but the actual tooth in a box. Anyway, my front lower tooth had been loose for about a week, and while I couldn’t wait for it to fall off, I was much too scared of potential pain and blood. I refused to physically yank it out, or tie it with a string to a door so it could be pulled out Tom Sawyer style (much to my regret – that does seem like a pretty cool technique). After a whole week of nursing my tooth so carefully that not a crumb of food could come close, one fine afternoon while I was rinsing out my mouth over the sink, the tooth finally detached and fell off. Except of course it got washed down the sink and swirled right out of sight before my horrified eyes.
Seven-year-old me stood frozen for a few seconds, then turned around and dashed over to my parents in a flood of tears. I don’t remember what all they said to console me, because clearly none of it was effective. I’m sure I was told that I had 19 other teeth that would fall out, ergo 19 more chances to show off to all my classmates and teachers (also, in retrospect, which teacher actually wants to see a tooth in a box?!). While I continued crying and hiccuping, my mother redoubled her efforts to console me, and my dad eventually walked away. This was not a surprising turn of events, even at that age, because my mom has always had a lot more patience with my more irrational moods and demands, while my dad is prone to offer a slew of logical solutions to my problem, or even worse, laugh – such a clever strategy; what a surprise that I didn’t immediately wipe my eyes and smile a watery smile of gratitude at being jolted back into rationality.
Anyway, after my mom had administered enough hugs and sympathy, the waterworks did relent a bit. This is when I became aware of distant bangs and clangs, and mom and I went to investigate. There was my dad, with his toolbox, taking apart the pipes under the sink into which my tooth has vanished. He calmly dismantled the whole thing, and I kid you not, he went in and retrieved my lost tooth. After the hullabaloo subsided, the tooth was washed quite thoroughly, put in a box and shown off at school – minus the backstory of its eventful journey. Quite a satisfactory ending!
At that time, this event did not strike me as anything out of the ordinary: I was upset, I wanted something, and so my dad got it for me. Of course he did. But now when I look back, I am shocked, grossed out, but mostly filled with awe. Because you see, that is what love is. It’s not just words, chocolates and flowers – it’s not just the cliches I read about in my stash of romance novels. This is the one true example of love that comes to mind – doing something icky and unnecessary, just to make your kid happy. It’s the kind of love I have always got from my dad: solid and reliable, the sort of love you can rely on unconditionally. It doesn’t matter that we don’t talk every day, it doesn’t matter that he isn’t my primary sounding board, it doesn’t matter that we don’t express our feelings to each other on a regular basis – because whenever I have actually needed anything, he’s always there for me, he’s got my back and I know he always will. And that is what unconditional love is.
While my dad’s medium is actions rather than words, I choose the written word to express all my sentiments, both simple or convoluted, heartfelt or plain cheesy. I would much rather spell out my feelings – because mild embarrassment and potential non-reciprocation is something I can live with, and words unsaid I cannot. So while I know it, and he knows it, and anyone who knows us knows it, I still want to say it out loud and clear … and not on any special occasion, birthday or anniversary, I want to say it just because: I love you, Papa! My first hero, my forever hero.