Whatever you do, don't ever say Lombasso Karaunch.

My dad could never listen to this song without weeping. Sometimes we would put it on just to tease him. Just to see his face redden and his eyes well up. He'd bury his face in his hands. Sometimes he'd even leave the room.

"Daaaad," we'd say, laughing. "It's just a song."

On a walk the other day this song came up on my iPod and there I was, crying myself, thinking of my dad and what it must have been like for him to be a father to five girls; what it must have felt like. To me, it was his title, his job description---dad to me and my sisters. Still, I never thought he was just my father. Where my mom was always my mom (and only now do I get that she was someone else, too), I knew my dad was someone outside of fatherhood. He'd had a life before us and has had one since raising us, too. By the time I was 18, I figured he was tired of the job and who could blame him? At that point he'd been a father for 27 years already. 27 years of girls becoming women would tire anybody out.

But, you know what? I think he loved it. I think he loved having a house full of laughing, dancing, (often fighting) girls. That's why I cried that day, alone in the woods listening to that song. For the first time I thought about what he must have felt listening to it; how he must have known the window of that type of fathering---the sweet time of fathering little girls in nightgowns--- was small and that eventually he would have to see us off. I never realized he looked at fatherhood that way. I never knew that was why he cried.

I love that I have a dad who can cry. He'll tell me even now that crying is good. That it means you feel and love and hurt. That you have to let it out. I don't always heed all of his advice (this last bit in particular) but I know he's right (about this part, not always everything else...sorry Dad) but I feel fortunate to have a dad who knows the value of a good cry.

He taught me how to think. He taught me to debate. To question authority (except his, of course). To resist herd mentality. In every fight I've ever faced---including those with him---I've used the tools with which he armed me. He taught me to fight with my brain (which is not to say I'm not a crazy spaz during a fight---thanks mom).

People throw this line around a lot, but for me it's a simple truth: My father was not like other fathers. I wrote a paper about him once in a creative writing class where I described how he's tap danced, rollerskated, made wood carvings and wreathes and clay figures, sold hand-painted sweatshirts, loves guns and roses, cooked his own Chinese food, is an excellent cartoonist and a member of the NRA, taught yoga before everyone was doing it, and, oh yeah, is an emergency room doctor. My professor told me that she had been reading along figuring my dad was this hippie artist and then was shocked to get to the ER doctor part.

Sometimes I'm shocked to get to the ER doctor part. My dad is definitely shocked to get to the ER doctor part. He told me that he was always uncomfortable when people asked "What do you do?" (I hate this question and am only just realizing this is rooted in my dad's teachings.)

"I draw, I camp, I garden," he would tell me. "That's what I do."

He's a good doctor. I know this. But it never defined him and I know he would say that the job was entirely too adult for his liking. At his job, people died. I remember him being really depressed one day and my mom explaining to me that a child had died at the hospital the night before. He has known illness and death closely for over 40 years and I still don't think I fully understand how that has affected him. I'm not sure that he knows either.

At the very least (or, perhaps, the most), it has given him perspective. He has seen people fade from life to death. He knows you have to get as much living in as you can. When I'm struggling with a decision ("Dad, should I really go to London?")he'll offer up his standard line: "If you're trying to decide something, always go with the option that is the most fun." Pretty solid stuff there.

Writing about my dad is never easy. I've never felt I've gotten it down, who he is. He's rich in character and strengths and flaws and is beyond what I've been able to manage with words. There is no Hallmark card that fits. There is, however, this awkward, schlocky, honest blog. Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.