photoMy dad had something he used to unleash on me from time to time — and it wasn’t a belt.

I called it “The Stare.”

The gaze usually appeared on Sunday mornings when everyone was home. Finished with the funnies — that’s what we called the comic pages then — and a couple of coffees tossed back, he would recline in his easy chair, one hand behind his head and take inventory of his youngest son from across the room.

I would look up several times and there they would be. For minutes on end, I couldn’t escape them, these laser-beam-focused peepers, sizing me up, stalking me.

Nothing was ever said but plenty was being communicated.

I didn’t know what the look meant back then, but I do now.

Anyone with a child knows what it’s like to love one. Sometimes you say the words — he often did — and sometimes you sit back and soak in what you had a hand in creating.

That’s what my dad was doing.

When I became a father, I made a promise to myself to love my children as much as he loved his.

I hope I am succeeding.



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