Happy Thanksgiving!

Growing up, I had a lot of nicknames. My grandpa Nick called me "Womp" because, I guess, when I was really little and didn't get my way, I would throw myself on the floor and cry. Grandpa would chuckle at me and say, "There she goes--womping on the floor again" and thus Womp was born. As I got older, that name grew to Wompolias--certainly not a name to wear like a crown, but my name nonetheless, at least where my grandpa and sister Lori were concerned.

At school? Vonda-Honda vroom vroom. Yeah. I got that a lot.

And my dad called me Ben. Nobody really knows where the name Ben came from as Dad called me Ben from my earliest memories. I have heard a variety of explanations, but the one that stands out is that Dad always wanted a boy and so he called me Ben as I was the last kid, the last child to crush his dream of a son.

Some days, Dad called me "Bender my Friender". That went over really well when I was in 7th grade or so--you know, that age where everybody hates me and everything I do is stupid and... we are all pretty much obsessed with ourselves, thinking that when we walk into a room, everybody stops and stares when the truth is (and you finally recognize this truth when you hit your early to mid 20's--somewhere in there) --...nobody notices. Not really, anyway.

During those early teen years, I can remember being at a basketball game, ready to head for home, surrounded by my teammates, and Dad would say, "Ready to go, Bender my Friender?" and I would cringe. "Daaaad!!!", I would say quietly, so that only he could hear, my eyes widening in that way we all do when we try to get across "The Message." But of course, Dad was undaunted.

Now that I have a 13 year old, I totally get it.

Dad never called me Vonda. In fact, when he did, it sounded strange, like a foreign word that I wasn't quite sure of its meaning. And even when I reached adulthood, married, started having children...Dad still called me Ben. And the truth is, I always  treasured that name. It spoke love to me, it spoke tenderness. It spoke of a connection between Dad and me. When I told others my dad called me Ben, they looked at me with questioning eyes...Why? But no matter. It was my name and, especially as I grew older,  I wore it with pride.

But somewhere over the last few years, my name officially transitioned to Vonda. I'm not sure when it happened, or even why it happened. Maybe it's just the natural progression of how life rolls. But for whatever reason, "Ben" got lost in a sea of years that rolled one on top of the other.  Sometimes, I've wondered about that-- in those moments where I just miss my dad.

Today is Thanksgiving. It's been a perfect kind of day really. The only "dark" spot was missing my sister Tami and her clan and, of course, Darian. But it was just a hiccup year and so, those of us who remained (our four, my nephew Jared, and Fiancé) did a mighty fine job of kicking into gear and helping out in the kitchen, eating more than our fair share of Thanksgiving fare, and ending the day with some raucous games around the dining room table.

But this morning, before I headed downstairs to peel potatoes and throw together a green bean casserole while mixing the dough for the rolls, I picked up my phone and took a minute to draft a text to my dad. I told him I loved him, that of all the dads in the world I'm so glad he's mine. And I am. Oh my word...I so am.

We ate dinner around the table, each of us stating the things that we are most grateful for this year: that we will soon have a son-in-law whom we all so dearly love, that sweet Jare came to visit, that Savana and Guer are almost done with school, that Jace is doing well in school, and the list continues. And then afterwards, as we all suffered from a food coma, we went our separate directions for awhile to have a couple of hours of quiet time.

And somewhere in there, I picked up my phone, noticed I had a text.

A text that was the exclamation point to my day.

A text that warmed my heart, that spoke volumes in just two little words:

"Thanks Ben."