Good Dinner, Great Company

As my father sipped on his third blueberry mojito, I leaned in to catch a whiff of cold, crushed mint leaves, mixed with the tantalizing fruit. Placing his glass on the table, with his other hand he pulled a small newspaper clipping from the inner pocket of his sport coat.

“I cut this out for you, but don’t read it now.”

Naturally I took a glance at the headline, which read: In an attack, it’s best to fight.

“You know, it’s just me being your dad.”

I playfully rolled my eyes and told him not to worry. D.C. is a safe place. “Besides,” I joked, “you and Mom reeeally would have freaked out if I was spending the summer in New York.”

We clinked our glasses and moved onto other topics: movies, work, architecture, museums, the dogs. Still, even as I sunk my spoon into a dessert of mandarin crème and chocolate, I couldn’t help but think how terrific my father is and how lucky I am that he continues to worry constantly about my “safety.” Still, he knows how to let me do my own thing.

Over dinner I assured him that I’m getting around fine in the city. I like it. No, I love it, and I’m constantly exploring with anyone who’s willing to join. There’s always an afternoon at the Corcoran or the Portrait Gallery, shopping in Georgetown, or dancing at the Black Cat. But for as much fun as I’ve had here, nothing beats dinner with my dad, and it’s not just because he’s paying.

I think we all go through a point in our adolescence when it seems like our parents get the most joy out of embarrassing us. My dad would take my brother and me to the pool in the summer, and when we jumped off the diving boards he’d follow with what looked to always be a semi-decent dive that quickly (purposefully) turned into a massive belly flop. While most kids laughed, my face flared red with humiliation.

“You’re so embarrassing!” I’d yell.

But he’d just laugh and tell me that’s what dads are supposed to do.

Somehow, and thankfully, I got over the burn of embarrassment, and I’ve realized how badass a belly flop can actually be. Besides embracing what a goofball he is, I’ve also learned that he’s a really smart guy and fun to talk to.

After dinner, we grabbed a cab to dodge the rainy downtown streets and continued to chat until the driver pulled up to the curb of my residence hall. We hugged goodbye and made plans for the next time he’d be in town. It was strange to think that tomorrow he’d be flying home to Kansas City and I’d still be in D.C., but I also knew that I’d love running up to my own little crash pad for the rest of the summer.

“Happy Father’s Day,” I said from the sidewalk.

He smiled, and before closing the door replied, “Call me when you get to your room so I know you got there safely.”

“I will.” And I did.

Sarah Handelman