Dear Dad,

It’s your birthday today. Fifty two years young, fifty two years wise, fifty two years experienced. Fifty two years of a lilting brogue so easy to poke fun at. Fifty two years of freckled skin and reddened cheeks. Fifty two years of a giving heart and a calming soul.

And nineteen years of being my dad. Your hands hardened by manual labor have always softened to take care of me. Your jaw tightened by the woes of the world has always loosened into a warm smile to cheer me up. Your voice that grumbles and barks at work has always found a way to sing me lullabies.

But more than any of that, you’ve simply been there and for that I can’t thank you enough. In a time when parenting is "mad work" for many, you’ve stuck around through the terrible twos, the temper tantrums and the tremulous teen years. You’re a man of few words, but all the libraries in the world can’t compare to the “How are ya’ Boo?” that comes with your bear hug. No pillow is as comfy as your shoulder as you channel surf and tell me about a documentary I just have to check out.

Even when you’re not around, I still have reason to thank you. You get up at the crack of dawn and break your back six days a week. You come home covered in dust and cuts, with ripped jeans and tired eyes. Your back aches and your beard becomes grey so that you can provide for us. And while we’re definitely not rich, you’ve gone above and beyond in that respect. The lessons you’ve taught me and the quality family time spent on the odd-year vacation or playing Cards Against Humanity or skipping down the aisles of Toys R’ Us are worth more to me than any brand name or dollar sign.

But I know you’re not perfect. You snore too loud and slurp your tea and have a knack for holding onto things you’ll never use again. You’re not known for patience, have some old-fashioned views and exhibit a stubbornness that surpasses a mule's. I should know because I share that immovable streak. I also share your nose, your eyes and your tendency to be fashionably late. That's why if I could correct these quirks, I wouldn’t. They make you my dad and they make you, you.

I used to be embarrassed about being close to you. So many people would profess a severe hatred for their parents and I honestly felt ostracized for not feeling the same way. Oh sure, I’ve complained as all offspring do. But as I get closer and closer to becoming a real adult myself, I realize I am more than happy to still be your little girl.