(Scene:  The kindergarten playground, on top of the monkey bars.  Two children are involved in a heated argument.)

Annoying Child:  (Annoyingly) My daddy’s cooler than your daddy!

Me:  (Dryly) Not possible.

Annoying Child:  (Annoyingly) Well, my daddy could beat up your daddy!  He’s the best wrestler in the state.

Me:  (Scornfully) So?  My daddy’s the best hotdog in the whole entire world!

And it was true.  My daddy was the best hotdog in the universe, probably.  He was also the number one airplane, tickle monster, and horsie.  Plus, he’d been to Japan, Chile, and Spain.  Thanks to him, I had a super-cool around-the-world doll collection sitting by my typewriter.  Yup--my daddy was the coolest, no question.

He was cool every moment of the day.  He just couldn’t help it.  Early in the morning, he’d swish me out of bed and fly me around the house, zooming and whooshing like an airplane.  I’d shriek and giggle because Daddy was at least as tall as the Empire State Building.  Then, after he whipped up a batch of his yummiest-in-the-world waffles, he’d disappear into the garage.  That was when he became more than cool; he became magic.   A neighbor would drop off a torn-up chair, and he’d whisk it into his workshop.  After a few hours of mysterious clanking, buzzing, and whirring, the chair would emerge--a brand new, spiffy, fully-recovered creature.  Ta-da!  Super Daddy!

The only time Daddy scared me (in a thrilling, spine-tingling sort of way) was when he became the Tickle Monster.  He would lie on the floor, eerily silent, and wait for me or my little brother to work up the courage to come creeping past.  Then he would heave and roar and drag us, amidst terrified yelps, into a tickle-y embrace.  We’d scream and laugh and finally plead for mercy.  Or sometimes we’d all go shopping with Mama.  Daddy would swing me onto his shoulders and whinny.  “Horsie, horsie on your way; we’ve been together for many a day,” I would sing happily as he trotted into Smith’s.  From my lofty perch, I was Princess of the World!

But my favorite game of all was Hotdog.  The two of us would lie on the ground and imagine we were frankfurters sizzling on a grill.  Every so often, Daddy would cry, “Time to flip!” and we’d roll from our backs to our tummies.  When we had been thoroughly crisped, a waitress would carry us to the table of a fat, hungry giant.  Daddy would start things off with a hearty “Chomp!”  Dutifully, I’d ask, “What did he eat?”  “My belly button,” Daddy would moan.  Then it was my turn to chomp.  “What did he eat?”  “My hair!” I’d cry.  The game went on and on until every last bit of our tasty hotdog-ish-ness had been digested.  Nobody could play Hotdog like my daddy!

These days, Daddy and I don’t play Hotdog much.  He doesn’t recover chairs as often, and if he tried giving me a horsie or an airplane ride, I’d probably put us both in the hospital.  So now, instead of playing airplane, he sends me off on a real, live plane that takes me to college every fall.  Instead of giving me horsie rides to make me feel like the Princess of the World, he mails me cards and hugs me hard when I come home to visit.  And you know what?  I still feel like a princess. Even though so much has changed, many things have stayed exactly the same.  Daddy still brings me around-the-world dolls from the countries he visits.  He still bakes yummiest-in-the-world waffles.  And he’s still the coolest Super Dad and, as I’m sure my mom would tell you, one hot dawg! 

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.  I love you!