Daddy's Girl

I have mentioned my father here before. I don't think that I have really explained our relationship though, I grew up as a daddy's girl. If you don't believe me, ask my siblings. They will tell you, I was the favorite. I don't say that as a matter of bragging, it is just a fact. Don't get me wrong, he loved all of his children. He was a good father to all of us. He provided generously for his whole family. But he and I? We shared something more.

I am really not sure why, but I can postulate a number of reasons. My mother was almost forty when she had me. She had miscarried two previous babies. When she became pregnant with me, her youngest child was eight. The doctors told her that she would miscarry this baby as well. She was confined to bedrest for most of the pregnancy and low and behold, she delivered a perfect baby girl. I was a miracle in my father's eyes. Then, at age two, my trachea was severed in an accident. Again my parents were told that I might die. Again, I was a miracle. I was also the baby of the family. And in many ways, I am the most like my father.

I am certainly not perfect nor am I a miracle. During my teenage years, my father quickly realized this. At times, I was the bane of his existence. I was the only one of his children that ever spoke back to him. I snuck out and came home drunk. I saw boys he disapproved of behind his back. I smoked dope. I was defiant and argumentative. I dropped out of college. I was a Democrat. Despite all of this, he loved me. He was always there for me, even if he never understood me. He never gave up on me. At the height of my rebelliousness, we still did things together. We went camping, we rode horses, we sailed, we worked on cars. He taught me how to fix things. He taught me how to manage money. He taught me how to be a parent. When I was in an abusive marriage and finally decided I'd had enough, he got me out. He took me to a lawyer, he bought me a car. When I was struggling as a single mother, he bought us groceries, he bought us shoes. He told me he was proud of me, when I didn't have much pride left. My father died several years ago. I miss him. Lately, I have been missing him much more. I have been thinking about him. I don't know why, except it just hits me now and then. My father's birthday was earlier this week. I didn't even remember it until last night. When I did remember, I went to bed and cried.

I thought about how he would be proud of my boys. I thought about how he would love my dogs. I thought about how much I just wanted to be able to talk with him. I thought about how we never really understood each other, but how we would probably understand each other now. He would understand my tendency to take in strays. I would understand why he always worried about me. Though we never saw eye to eye on religion or politics, we would share a caring and compassion for all people. We would agree that sometimes people need a little help changing their circumstances and we would offer it if we could. We would agree that everyone deserves a second chance (and sometimes a third), even if they are a criminal. I know we would agree on those things, because those are the things he taught me. He didn't teach them with words, but with deeds. I think that it would please him to know how much I miss him, but he would tell me that I am fine and I am strong. He would also tell me to take care of my mother and to be nice to my sister, because they need me. Then he would tell me to stop crying and to quit sharing all this personal stuff on a blog, because it's nobody's business.

I love you Dad. I wish I could tell you that one more time.