As a kid, my dad was my childhood guru. He was funny, wacky, mildly insane and knew so much about everything I was convinced he was the smartest person on the planet. It might be worth noting that my dad is still funny, wacky, very much insane and still knows everything. I just grew up enough to sometimes use Google and check up on one or two of his ‘wise’ theories.
Back to my brain and my dad’s influence.
Dad is a manly man. He hacks, he spits, he inhales food faster that a backo machine and yells when he hits his thumb with a hammer. Actually, I don’t know many who wouldn’t yell in that scenario, but watching him cram food into his mouth is an educational experience. Kids love him because he plays the crazy clown like a pro.
When I was growing up, my dad’s version of Spend Time with Your Child included teaching me the mechanics of how a car worked. Handy-man projects around the house were followed by, ‘Kate, come here and I’ll show you how to use a power drill.’ My grandma informs me he used to play ‘very roughly’ with me as a baby and I loved it. The rougher the more I laughed.
Is it any wonder that I turned out the way I did? Girlish behaviour didn’t stand a chance. So now I’m a girl working in a man’s world, alongside tilers and builders and messy electricians (seriously, those guys are on-the-job-slobs). I owe it all to my dad.
If I was lying on that psychologist’s sofa and she or he asked me, ‘So, Kate. How has your day affected you?’
I’d say, ‘Well, I re-affirmed something in my mind.’
Cognitive psychologist’s eyes light up. ‘Oh yes. And what was that?’
I answer. ‘I already knew it, but my dad is crazy. This morning at smoko break he confirmed it.’
‘What did he do?’
‘It’s more what he said. He said, “I’m going to go speak to the toilet.”‘
Need I say more?