that’s happening

My parents are going to be guest bloggers here, y’all. Strap yourselves in.

A pastor recently asked if my dad and I had considered writing a book on how fathers can raise assertive, confident Lutheran daughters. And if that wasn’t enough, “Sprinkle it with some of your mom’s recipes,” he recommended.

This is the kind of thinking I can support.

Everyone who’s met my parents loves them. My sisters and I have the kind of mom and dad that our friends wanted to hang out with. They’d invite themselves over, not to see us, but to sit and chat with our parents. It was a lonely life: our parents surrounded by adoring fans while we girls sat glumly in the corner . . .

I may be remembering that incorrectly.

Our parents were, admittedly, unique. (Did you know you can’t say “pretty unique” or “very unique”? This public service announcement brought to you by English majors everywhere.)

For instance, my dad is the kind of dad who:

  • Pretended to toss us in lakes when we were fishing
  • Would put us in the bucket of his Bobcat, raise it up, and pretend to tip it like he was going to dump us out on the ground
  • Pour water on our tents when we were camping while growling like a bear (We screamed like we were having our fingernails ripped out every time.)
  • Made us cry learning to drive stick shift.

But he is also the kind of dad who:

  • Made us do family devotions every night, even when we were not-so-secretly rolling our eyes
  • Drove 13 hours when one of his daughters was having a meltdown (That was me, by the way. Yeah. I was the one melting down. Me. Right here.)
  • Tells us often how much he loves our mom, how beautiful she is, how he can’t imagine live without her . . . and that’s after 35 years of marriage!

My mom is the kind of mom who:

  • Threatened physical harm when I tried to serve fruit to guests in a piece of Tupperware
  • Got thissssss close to washing my mouth out with soap on several occasions (She didn’t have to actually act on it. The threat was plenty.)
  • Almost strangled me when I threw a very large wooden toy at my sister that left a gigantical red mark on her bedroom wall

But she is also the kind of mom who:

  • Listens to me talk for an hour straight with plenty of “uh-hums” and “I knows” and never tries to weasel extra comments in
  • Tells me to keep trying when I complain that I totally destroyed an attempt at homemade donuts . . . for the ninth time
  • Claims to love it when I give her Christmas presents whose wrapping looks like a third-grade art project

My sisters and I love to talk about our parents. We remember the times they were tough on us, when they encouraged us and when they drove us so crazy we could hardly handle it (like that time they confiscated my sister’s music because it had the word hell in it. Hey, go easy on them. They liked James Dobson at the time.)

And the good news is that with some future impending blog posts, you’ll get a chance to see the inside of all the crazy awesome that is the Dorr family too. Stay tuned, everybody. Stay tuned.

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