"I just want to see the Grand Canyon. When does that happen?" my husband asked.

We were car hunting at the time, planning for a teenage driver, and we needed a more fuel-efficient third car. We would give our new driver the old car with all of the miles on it. But how were we going to squeeze a car payment and steeper insurance premiums into a budget that was already packed with payments for a class trip to Costa Rica, winter band ensemble, ACT prep classes and a YMCA membership for the young swimmer?

Every sacrifice was worth it; we knew that. The kids were happy and healthy and had opportunities for experiences to help them grow as people. That's the important stuff. But I couldn't help but wonder whether they knew how much of our day goes into making sure they are on track to achieve their individual goals.

Around the same time, a moisture problem in the basement ruined the bottom of a box I'd had since high school. It was time to salvage the contents or pitch them. In the box, I found a file of papers from my dad, mostly old report cards and teachers' notes to remind me I was a horrible student. My kids are much better students than I was. I also found an envelope marked "Newport Schools." As a kid, I lived in Newport, but I went to Highlands in Fort Thomas because of their excellent band program. Plus, where we lived on the east edge of Newport, Highlands was closer for me.

"He was going to make me go to Newport, because I was such a bad student," I shouted up the basement steps to my husband. I shook the evidence I held emphasizing my defiant assumption, a display worthy of any adolescent.

Then, I pulled out the papers and read. I couldn't believe it. I was wrong. In letters dated my sophomore year of high school, I learned that my father wrote to the Newport school board, the superintendent and even the state department of education to fight for me. A policy change meant Newport would no longer permit students in their district to attend alternative public schools. My dad appealed the decision at every level. I read letters that my dad wrote boasting of my band accomplishments and detailing reasons why I should be permitted to finish my high school career at Highlands, because he felt that it was in my best interest.

In the end, my dad found a way to keep me in Fort Thomas schools. They stated the cost, and no doubt he sat at his desk, the one that pushed up against his bedroom wall, punching his calculator to perform that squeeze-blood-from-a-turnip magic trick that so many parents do.

I had no idea. I am grown with three kids of my own, and I finally "get" it.

Happy Father's Day to my dad, and to all dads just trying to figure things out for their kids.

Bonnie Jean Feldkamp is a wife, mother and award-winning columnist. She is the media director of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Find her on social media @WriterBonnie, or email her at Bonnie@WriterBonnie.com. To find out more about Bonnie Jean Feldkamp and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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